Where I discover that I can't kill the woman I married.
*
I had been back in New York for two days when the package arrived. It lay at the centre of my desk and was the size of a shoebox. The address was handwritten. I knew the familiar curls, the generous lettering. Maybe I shouldn't open it, I thought, while my fingers were already opening it.
The box was crammed with balled-up white tissues. On top lay the yellow piece of paper I had left on her chest while she was sleeping. It had obviously been crumpled before being smoothed out again; the ink of the writing seemed blotted by moisture. A few words had been added at the bottom, but they were crossed out again. I tried to read them. I thought I saw "love."
I remembered what I had written on the yellow paper. I knew I would regret the opening my words had left her. Why couldn't I have just been satisfied with a simple good-bye -- maybe an added good luck? It must have been that damn four-letter word again. The word that starts with an l, but isn't "lust." Lust hadn't been in my thoughts for all the time she had been in my arms. My cock had stayed as dead as a cold, naked snail.
But alas, yes, another organ had been highly involved -- my heart. Damn foolish heart, stupid blood-pumping muscle. The same one that was rattling at my rib-cage right now.
I cleaned the box from the puffy balls of tissue paper. (It's true, you know -- a woman's tears are her weapons. And Myriam had found a perfect way to cry long-distance.) At the bottom lay a picture. It was a postcard-sized glamour shot of "Estelle." Her heavy-lashed eyes blazed from the paper, as did her smile. The chestnut hair curled down in perfection until it caressed her stunning new cleavage. Her alias was printed in a corner, in a girlish, faux-handwritten way -- a little heart added. The kitschiness of it all made me shudder. All over the shining picture, huge, fat letters had been hurled down with a magic marker: "THIS IS NOT ME!!!" they screamed.
On the back of the photo was the address of the agency. It was the Dallas-based branch of a nationwide network. New York, I saw, and Vegas, Detroit, San Francisco. Even London. There were also some tiny italic lines describing her classy qualities as an escort for visiting businessmen. There was her degree and her business experience. She was "intelligent, witty and well-read." Physical attractiveness or sexual prowess weren't mentioned; I guess the photograph was supposed to speak for itself. The same black magic marker of the front had been used to jot down a cell-phone number on the back -- and the word "please."
I dropped the card on the desk and stared at it.
***
The agency's business number was amongst the small print. It had been partly obscured by her jotted-down cell number. The Houston Hilton would be close to where I had to be anyway, next week.
It took me half an hour to consider making the call. All the while I had stared at the picture -- the eyes, the computer-polished skin, the smile that made my heart weep. The alien tits. "THIS IS NOT ME!!!" she wrote. I had to agree.
The female voice sounded all-businesslike in a smooth and sympathetic way. Yes, Estelle was available. And yes, my wishes could be easily met as long as I knew there would be extra charges. If I'd please leave my address and all other instructions, they'd take care of everything.
I made one more call later that afternoon and then I threw away the box and its contents. I went to the fitness centre where I allowed the machines to torture me in their cruelest ways.
Later that evening I beat Erica 6 - 2 and 6 - 3. She asked if I was all right. I smiled and told her not to worry.
***
The room was spacious. It was a suite, really. The afternoon sun tried to pierce the drawn shades. It resulted in a warm, intimate atmosphere. Golden specks danced in the narrow beams of sunlight that spilt around the edges of the shades.
The hands on my watch crawled closer to the appointed hour. I guess there is nothing as efficient in making a man doubt his motives as having time to kill. Why was I here in the first place? Hiding behind a screen to watch my ex-wife destroy the last spark of affection left inside my sorry excuse for a heart. Why -- after two years, for Christ's sake -- did I still have this seething need to get back at her? I should have thrown away the pathetic box and the gruesome picture. Better yet -- I should never have let her into my room in that Dallas hotel.
Through the slits of the tasteful Japanese screen I had a view of the king size bed. I could also see two of the men lounging in the adjacent room. Tall, handsome men -- long legs, tight shirts over muscled chests. Well endowed too, as they had assured me. The third man was in the bathroom, I guessed. I sat up and once more wondered why I was here, doing what I was doing.
It had all been quite easy to organize. Expensive, true -- but I didn't care. Looking back I would have to agree that this impulsiveness wasn't at all like me. Wasn't I supposed to be the deliberate numbers man? Then again -- have I ever been myself since Myriam betrayed me?
Betrayal -- such a big word to use after all this time.
My thoughts went to that utterly strange night in Dallas, again. I had let her in, but I had refused to let her explain. She had tried so hard to do so during the dry spells between her teary outbursts, but I smugly denied her the opportunity to tell me -- to explain herself, as she said. I knew she would lie anyway. Just look what she had done since our divorce. She had turned prostitute -- need I say more?
