LOVE/Less

He falls on the bed and turns to look at her. That's when he stretches his hand and beckons her towards him.

* * * *

"How long do you intend on carrying on with this secret tryst of yours?" MacDonald asks her after scribbling something down on his notepad. His tone of voice is devoid of any hint that might indicate him having prying interest into her affair. Remarkably she isn't bothered about his question. In fact, she more than welcomes it and she too was still struggling over the question with herself. More than a week has passed since that fateful afternoon she consummated with Quincy. She was still basking in the euphoria, full of round smiles and burgeoning happiness unlike her previous early visits.

"I can't say I know the answer to that, John," she speaks coyly, a serene smile on her lips. "So much I hope it'll stay this way for maybe another week, or even till the end of the month ... I don't know. I dream of him a lot whenever I go to sleep at night."

"What do you dream about that involves him?"

"I don't know – whatever comes to my head. A recurring one is that he and I got into his car and just drove off out of the city, laughing and smiling and just being happy together with ourselves."

"You know there's a word for that. It's called infatuation."

"I don't think it's what I'm having," she says.

"How sure can you be?"

"I can't really say ... just the feeling I'm having. It's quite real to me."

"Okay, we'll skip past that for now." Another round of scribbling with his pen. "In your dreams that you say you're having, is Jeffery ever in them?"

She turns defensive. "It's my dream, John. He doesn't have to be in it if I don't let him to."

"Have either of you made any attempts at rekindling your love making?"

"We did the night before."

"Any change or improvement?"

She shakes her head. "All the while he was on top of me, all I thought about was Quincy. I barely even realized when he rolled off me, spewed much of himself all over my thighs."

"We talked about you talking with him about your feelings during our former meeting. I guess you're yet to carry that out?"

She is silent, contemplating for a moment, then: "Lately I've even been thinking about getting a divorce."

"Are you sure that's something you want to do?" he asks.

"I don't know, except I can't stop thinking about it."

"For how long now?"

"Being a while, I can't really say."

"Is anyone else aware of this? Have you told Quincy about it?"

Another shake of her head.

"But you are thinking about it."

To this she replies first with a nod. "yes, I'm seriously thinking about it."

5.

They make love under the glow of candlelight. Their bodies drenched in sweat, slapping and grooving against each other's contrasting skin under the ruffled bed sheet. Her lips release a sensuous moan as his finds one of her breasts and he flicks his tongue upon her nipple. There is a fire burning inside her and it forces her body upon his. She rolls her thigh upon his. Her hand reaches down between his legs and guides his member into her labia opening while his hand continues to squeeze gently her breast as his teeth bites and nibbles on her nipple, exploding forth more and more excruciating warmth from within her. She leans her face forward and smashes her lips against his while his arms pull her upward. She now straddles him, feeling the overwhelming pressure of his manhood expanding her innards and within seconds she starts bouncing up and down his waistline. Her hands touch and caress every part of his muscled torso ... such beautiful creature he is. She is in love with everything about him. she tells him how beautiful he is; he says the same of her as his hands grasp her breasts and pull her body down towards his awaiting lips. Their bodies dance to a high-powered rhythm as their love-making becomes frantic. They switch position, both of them groaning and moaning against each other's face. He jerks his hips against hers, pushing his manhood further inside her, drawing a higher groan from inside her throat. They continue climbing up the wall of highness, their motion and want increasing with each smack of their thighs. In the dark corners of her mind, Ann-Mary reflects on everything and nothing. Her thoughts saturated only with the enveloping shroud of desire that's filing her up like a hydrogen balloon. She gazes into his eyes – blue eyes into brown – becomes one with him. Her body tenses from the rising tidal wave coming from within the well of her womb, roaring up like a propelled bullet as she arches her back away from him. Her lips screech out a piercing orgasmic cry ... her cries merges with his just as he ejaculates insides her ... and then as one they fall back to earth. She remains there shivering in her lover's arms, heart still heaving with desire as she kisses every flesh of his face, expressing endless love for every angel flying by to observe.

They lie there in sated quietude, wrapped and lost in each other's arms under a candlelight glow.

* * * *

The house is lonesome and quiet and feels almost deserted. Her eyes are quick to take note of this just as she enters the driveway and turns off her engine. Jeffery isn't yet home waiting for her to return, like he had the day before when he'd confronted her about the affair. That's just as well. She's still weary from the yesterday's beating to want to deserve another.

She steps out of the car, takes out the shopping bags of green vegetables and apples before closing the door. she stops to adjust the pair of shades on her face before approaching the front door, unlocking it and then stepping inside.

Everything in the house is just as she had left it; everything in the house is just as it was yesterday and the day before; the burning incense she'd left on the center table before she went out is still alive. There's no sign of Jeffery anywhere. Again, that's just as well. She stands there for a moment, in the living room, with shopping bags in her hand, taking off her glasses to savour the comfort of the place she calls home, feeling every bit as undecided and confused as she'd been less than an hour ago when she was staring down at the apples (why did I even buy those stupid apples, anyway?). She approaches the stereo set, wanting to listen to some music. Her hand travels the length of album CDs stacked against each other in a cabinet beside the stereo set. Indecision plagues her thoughts and in fit of resignation drops down her hand and turns away from the set. She walked down the passage, past the staircase towards the kitchen where she empties her goods on top the table. She spends the next half hour putting the apples away inside the fridge, washing the green vegetables and broccoli but keeping it aside before existing the kitchen and head up the stairs to the master bedroom.

Ann-Mary slumps down on the bed, holding her head in her hands. She's in desperate need of crying and lies there waiting for the tears and anguish to come forth from her eyes, for the pain lurking inside to unleash its fury and flood every nerve, tissue and organ in her anatomy with bereft and anger. A minute passes and then another and still no sign of tears fall from her eyes, nor does she feel any flooding pain; all she feels is numbness ... both in her mind and all over her body. She sniffles and pushes her blonde hair backwards, feeling her eyes round the room, but not actually seeing it. All she sees is Quincy. All she wants to think about is Quincy ... how he'd looked the last time they'd laid together: his strong arm draped across her, feeling his fingers tickle her ear while she snuggled against his chest, listening to the sound of his laughter, the tenderness of his words ... and to think that she will never see him ever again ... feel him ever again.

She falls on the bed, staring up at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan, attempting to grasp where everything had gone wrong.

6.

It will be wrong to assume that Jeffery, her husband, all the while had been kept totally in the dark. More likely his thoughts were dully occupied with a lot of other things, but that's not to say he never once took notice or even speculated – at least to himself – about the expanding change, both in demeanor and manner of his wife since mid-August. Unlike before she often appeared more laid-back and reticent, more into herself. He'd known of course that the bulk of the fault was from him. He was too concerned with all what was going on in his office than making any attempt to shed some color into his marriage. It haunted him just about every night that he was finding it hard communicating with his wife ... that he was somehow losing her. Of course he'd made a promise of making it up to her. Just as soon as the promotion kicks in, he promised himself that he really would make it up to her – take her on a vacation trip, spend as much time with her as he possibly can and hopefully start making serious plans about having kids. He'd thought of all this and more. But he was very much aware of the change that was taking place around her. Her smile had brightened, her look, once used to being sad and thoughtful now full of life and sparkle. Of course he would've overlooked all this, except a gnawing feeling kept telling him that whatever new-found happiness she was getting, none of it was meant for him.

One evening while they were having dinner, he'd started some conversation on the off chance of catching a feel of her current mood.

"How about you and I taking the next weekend together," he said, though not sure of where the conversation might lead. "I was chatting with Bob earlier today – you remember Bob, don't you – anyway, he's just rented this lovely yacht that he wants to throw a sort of party on and he was talking about wanting us coming along. You know it's been a while since we spent time with them."

She stared down at her plate for a moment, then replied: "By Bob, you mean the same senior partner of yours who kept looking under my skirt the last time he came round here?"

He laughed. "You still have that against him."

"It's not exactly the sort of thing anyone would forget."

"Well, he's a changed man now. He was going through a rough time back then, with his divorce from Melanie, but he's clean and sober – he's even got himself a new lover now."

"I'm surprised your firm never kicked him out."

"He's good at what he does – just about one of the best tax attorneys the firm can ever afford to keep. It's going to be a shame if ever they decided to let him go. So, what do you say?"

Her face snaps up to look at him; it's obvious that her thoughts are preoccupied by something else. But what exactly is what he wants to know.

"Say what, darling?" she asks him.

"I was talking about you and I spending next weekend together on Bob's boat. Let's try and get away from here for a while. What do you say?"

She stammers with an answer. "Well, I can't say ... I don't know ... I've got some more accounting in the office to take care of ..."

"You can always handle your papers before Friday," he insists. "It's been a while since you and I spent much time together, I just want to be with you this weekend. Is that too much to ask?"

She is talking to herself: "No, it's not. We'll see, okay?"

He was about saying something else but he's a second too late as she lowers her head and continues with her meal, leaving him sitting across from her, looking like a long lost baggage. It's enough to spoil the rest of the evening for him ... and also to get his thoughts all fired up.

* * * *

It's a Thursday evening, two days later, that he commits a crime. Such a silly puerile crime it is, one he hasn't attempted since he turned fifteen – yes, he was fifteen then, he still remembers – when his mother was busy gossiping on the phone with her erstwhile friend and cribbage partner, Mrs. DeVille who lived just down the block from their apartment building, while he, with a skipping heartbeat, helped himself to some spare change from her open purse that was on the kitchen table to be used later for a game or two at Eddy's Bowling Spot later the following afternoon. Had his mother been around to see him at it, most definitely she'd have skinned his hide and waited for his father to return from his job at the Cadbury factory to sprinkle some more salt on his behind while he sweated from the grille. It had been a lucky break for him, one he'd never again attempted.

And yet here he is, right now, listening to the sound of his wife having her last shower for the night while like a professional burglar, his fingers unzip her handbag and dexterously peruse its contents for whatever secrets it might contain. A part of him explains that he's merely imaging things, dreaming up intrigue where there aren't any. Any yet ... there that wasn't a viable answer. Something really was happening, and he intends to find out what. His fingers skim past several make-up and facial paraphernalia, leaves her purse, credit cards and office keys untouched till digging deeper into a tiny partition by the side, unearthing a receipt of payment of five hundred Dollars to a certain John Macdonald M.D., Doctor of Psychiatry, with his address stated under his wife's recognizable scroll of a signature. A question comes on in his head like a light bulb in a dark room: since when did Ann-Mary start seeing a so-called Psychiatrist? The date of receipt answers that for him as being the twenty-fourth of July, three weeks from today. Another light bulb pops up in his head: could such a visit be any reason at all for her unusual strangeness around him? And what the hell would she be seeing a shrink for? He replaces the receipt and his fingers continue their rummaging. Then he unearths a plain card with a phone number and the name QUINCY written and underlined above it. Just in time he hears the diminishing sound of the shower, knowing his wife will soon be out, he memorizes the number and leaves her handbag in just the same manner he had found it and goes back to his own side of the bed, pretending to fall asleep while she dries herself up and comes over to join him.

He clears off a load of work from his desk the following day, putting a majority of them away till Monday next week at the same time delegating the few remaining to his ever efficient and fastidious secretary, Jennifer, and before the dot of twelve noon, he grabs his jacket and is out of the office. He takes the elevator down to the lobby and heads for his Mercedes at the building's underground parking lot. Entering the city's traffic three minutes later, he circumnavigates his way across town till less than a half hour later he's parked at an advantageous position from where he has a clear view of the glass-proof doors leading into the cosmetic agency where his wife works at. A discreet phone call earlier to his wife's secretary before he'd left the office told him his wife was still locked up in her office and won't be stepping out for lunch till twelve-thirty. It's already a quarter after twelve. It's a good thing he'd left the office when he did. He reclines back in his seat, watching the traffic drone past him, feeling every bit like a detective. He can but but sense a shakiness in his bones as he sits there struggling with whatever he it is he's going to find before the afternoon is over.

Twelve-thirty six and he's about throwing in the towel when the glass door pushes outward and there stands his Ann-Mary, looking demure and yet elegantly appropriate in a summer blouse, brown pants and matching jacket with a scarf round her neck and pair of shades steps out into the sun's glare and starts walking up the block. Jeffery steps out of his car and follows at a distant pace. He sees her turn round the end of the block and hurries across the street into a café/restaurant shop. He doesn't attempt going in after her, but instead follows her movement through the large glass windows as she stops before a table that's occupied by a young dark-skinned fellow. He watches as the black man rises up, takes off the cap sitting on her head and hugs her. She returns the hug with a smile and together they sit down holding hands. The realization dawns upon Jeffery's puckered brow.

Quincy. No doubt, it's you.

His mind is in a welter of rage, anger and despair. Whatever would give her the right to cheat on him, much less do it with some ... tramp?

He's back in his office, having first stopped at a fast-food house to pick up some snacks, but even as he stands behind his desk, gazing out his window, the food remains neglected on his desk, looking more insipid for him to taste. He slaps a palm against the window pain, mutters a foul curse while his eyes endlessly playback everything he'd seen.

He'd stayed hidden from plain sight and watched them. They hadn't stayed long in the café. He'd returned back to his car, driven a bit up the road but kept a wide distance, not intending against anything else that Ann-Mary might just accidentally spot him. He'd watched as she and the young man left the café, turned round the corner and entered into a crabby-looking Ford DeSoto and then driven off. It was the sort of car only a tramp would care to own. He'd followed them all the way, parked a short distance behind as he watched them park into a cul-de-sac corner, watched them step out, holding hands and smiling as they walked into a tenement building. Jeffery sat there, clutching the steering wheel with both hands, feeling so much like wanting to come out and murder someone. Even now as he stands here staring out his window he asks himself why he hadn't simply gone up and confronted both of them. God, it would have been nice right there and then to see the shocked look that would have been on Ann's face had he done just that.

He takes out a folded paper from his pocket and looks at the number he had written down. It was the same number he had memorized from ransacking his wife's bag last night. He raises the paper to his face, staring at the numbers with malicious intent. It brings a smile to his face and once again he contemplates murder.

7.

The man sitting across from him is tall, bulky and dangerous. Everything about him, from the dark jacket he's putting on to the deep scowl on his face reeks of danger and beware to anyone even thinking about trespassing his territory. Jeffery perceives this easily just as he stares into the expressionless blue eyes of the man. His name is Leon; no middle or last name, just Leon, with a slight accent about him that spoke of eastern European. A minute passes by and neither of them says anything. The waitress arrives with their drinks. Jeffery gulps down his scorch while Leon leaves his untouched and leans over on the table; his hands – large pair of dangerous hands – interlock their fingers against each other and listens like an attentive priest hearing a confessional to Jeffery's story.

There are seated here in the back corner booth of a roadside titty bar situated close to the harbor. Behind them echoes rapturous bedlam of yells and excitement from evening costumers known to revel in such haunts. Jeffery stumbles for a moment upon his narrative as he begins, but as he delves further his words grow bolder in expectation. The man merely nods his head as he continues with his tale, not bothering to interrupt or read any assumptive holes in his words. It's amazing the kind of things or type of persons one can find on the internet, depending on how serious and diligent you apply your search. Anything from household items, precious metals and all kinds of reliable assistance of almost any and every kind, including adverts on how to find someone willing to do whatever hit-and-run or death-dealing job you desire ... as long as the price is right. Which is how the following Monday he's here meeting with one of such person at such an ungodly place and at such an ungodly hour – past eleven of midnight. He'd already called home telling Ann-Mary he's chocked up at the office and for her to go to sleep without waiting up for him. From the sound of her voice he assumed she was more than glad to do that.