"Ohhhh BaabbbbAAAAAAAABBbbyy," she cried with each thrust.
She couldn't say she, knew, him, but, "Ohhhh BaabbbbAAAAAAAABBbbyy," she cried.
Never seen him before. He came in at midnight.
She began descending into Midtown when her husband's practice began ascending out of New York to Tucson a week a month. She never dabbled more than once a day nor dallied more than a week a trip. She ended each day of her sojourns clubbing in the Village.
She ducked in her favorite early for a strategic, quiet-end seat. Near panic-bar fitted stage-doors, next to a 150 gallon, fresh-water aquarium throwing a wavy, aqua-marine glow over the back booths and tables, she was comfortable just out of the aquarium's glow. She liked to watch little frogs leap at ghost shrimp and bat snails under watchful patrols of one red Beta, magnificently fanned, gliding above.
She lamented the aloneness of that Beta. She read it as loneliness. She learned of Betas. She came to the conclusion that animal was so violent he had the best life he could hope for in that place: guarding his aquarium from above.
She was permitted by the Bartender to feed him when she arrived. He showed her where the flakes were, just behind the near, outside corner of the aquarium, within easy grasp on the way by. She tapped the glass as she arrived. This was a very smart Beta. It only took three trips before he responded to the tap, and then followed her finger along the glass to the place of feeding. When he got to the place she wanted, she shook in flakes: he dined. She was not the only source of food for this Beta, just additional. She did not name him. Just trained him.
She rocketed into Manhattan on the Saw Mill and knitted her way into the Village off the Westside Highway. She loved that drive. She never lost her fascination with the City. As Queens developed outside her windows she remembered her first, her fiftieth, her last trip. Careening along the Hudson, crossing the Harlem, she was in Manhattan, where all slowed, through a palisade of shear walls cut by an unending, fitful undulation of seething traffic, snaking along the river. She was a romantic and sought positive when possible, but was intensely aware of hidden .32's, switch blades and danger in hearts of some, behind city walls, in shadows, looming ahead.
Speeding past White Plains she remembered her first trip's sunset, guilt ridden, but determined; or, her thirtieth, full of excited anticipation. She remained amazed how different this cityscape looked on the way in from the way it struck her on the way out. Expectation can be a terrible thing. She disabused her soul of expectation on the way in, but life was not perfect. She experienced disappointment from time to time on the way out. She usually crossed the island as day broke over Hudson's misty haze, in morning's cool dampness, having left a lovers bed, heading to hotel, or home.
She was the well-conditioned, 56 year old mother of 2 grown children. She carried a pistol. Today it was her Phoenix Arms HP 22, LR. She served as a nurse. She learned during that time, extant in the world, were at least two types of people: those who had pulled the trigger, and those who had not. She had, on a dark city street, late at night, far, far away: never talked about; never forgotten; never re-lived; eventually forgiven. She won and was alright with that. So was her husband who encouraged her in this regard. He felt it supported exclusivity. He never understood the independence it represented. He never understood he never understood. She was comfortable with that. It was a crack.
That night, her training took over, and from a dark, distant, empty street, as he fell, she just walked away. She got used to secrets after that. Her trips to the Village were secret. They helped define her to her. They provided aspects to her life that embellished all others, as a lover embellished, as a child, a husband. From her vantage she could assess members of the crowd as each entered. The Bartender acknowledged her, but nobody introduced themselves. This was the big tent, and all knew it.
She was in her blind, having her last Scotch, when he walked in. Her scan fixed. He was armed. In a prior life she covered the door of an after-hours club in Iowa. The Club offered fully nude women as dancers paid to entertain or as customers if they wished. Bars selling alcohol closed at 2:00 AM and by 2:30 the After-Hours club filled to the gunnels. After 2 all were drunk, many armed. Working the door and observing security frisking customers she learned how to spot a weapon. It was more to do with how one carried oneself than with any bulge, but once the carriage peaked an interest, the bulge, somewhere, became evident, quickly. It was a self-preservation thing. She had always been amazed how many weapons walked through this door unchallenged. The Doorman did not frisk and purses were not checked. From the point of view of weapons, this place was uncontrolled: hence her presence. All was good. She knew, he had no idea, maybe, but: "OhhhhBaabbbbAAAAAAAABBbbyy."
