LOVE/Less

Leon waits for almost a minute after he's done with his tale of wife-cheating before deciding to speak, and when he speaks, his voice is soft yet brooding, another dangerous sign from him. "What's the man's name?"

"Quincy. That's the only name I have on him."

"Does he have an address?"

Jeffery takes a paper out of his pocket and slides it over to Leon's waiting hands. He takes a look at it, grunts and pockets it.

"Going to cost you five grand."

"No problem," Jeffery takes out a bundle from his inner jacket, deftly counts out a few and slaps it against Leon's glass. Slowly, as if being reluctant about it, Leon reaches for the wad of money, counts it first before throwing it into the same pocket as the paper with the address. Then he picks up his glass and empties it and gets up from his seat.

"I'll be in touch," is all he says before existing out of the booth and from the out of the raucous noise of the clubhouse, leaving his hirer behind to order one more glass of scotch to succor his still throbbing mind.

* * * *

Her head rests on his shoulder while his hand plays with the locks of her hair. They lie there unmoving, naked under the bed sheet, staring up at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan, listening to the gentle drone of passing vehicles emanating from outside the window. The silence in the room is just as comforting to her; so much she wishes she could carry if only a figment of it back home with her.

"I mostly likely won't be seeing you till after this Sunday," she says softly, the fingers of her right hand caresses his chin, feeling the trace of beard that lines his face.

"Sunday's four days away. What's going to keep you away till then?"

"It's my husband, Jeffery." She feels a slight stiffen in his hand; all the while they've been together it's been like an unwritten rule not to mention anything concerning her married life, neither has she so much as bothered asking if he was actually seeing anyone else other than her. Of course, it would be nice to know, but then again, it wouldn't. She waits a minute before continuing: "He wants us to spend the weekend together at a friend's yacht. I thought I could push it off but ..."

He makes the decision for her: "You shouldn't, that would only make him suspicious. Go and spend the weekend with him, and when you're through you can always stop by and tell me all about it."

She turns her head at him. "You sure you wouldn't mind? I can't stand the thought of being away from you, even if for a day – I'm scared of losing you."

For an answer, he pulls her upwards and covers her lips with his, feeling her body respond under his arms.

8.

The man called Leon adjusts the Yankees cap further down his face before lighting another cigarette after the growing pile in his ashtray and continuing with his observation of the tenement building from the dark confines of a white-colored Chevy Pick-up parked in the alleyway of a Chinese junk shop. He's been sitting here since noon. He had observed the woman and her companion arrive and entered the building, and though that was more like two hours ago, but to him it feels more like twenty minutes. This isn't his first time of applying for such a work and over the period of years of grown reputation, he's gotten quite used to the numerous side attractions of the job, one of them being the almost endless wait for the right moment of visit, which is what he's sitting here for. To him it's more like the parable of the patient dog consuming the fattest bone. He was the dog, ever waiting in patience, while the intended victim as usual is the bone, and no matter the outcome, one of them is going to turn out lucky in the end.

It's 3:23 p.m. by his watch when he sights the woman leaving the building. From an upstairs window he spots his intended victim appear and wave a hand down at her. She waves back at him and then crosses the street and flags down a taxi. Leon watches her jump in and drive off; the sees his victim – his bone – disappear into the interior of the window. He gives an extra two minutes before extinguishing his cigarette and stepping out of his pick-up truck. He puts on a pair of black rubber gloves before taking out a baseball bat from the corner of the passenger seat and locking the door behind him. He waits till the street is just about empty with no one hovering about to see him before ambling across the street, the baseball bat sidled against his armpit so as not to noticed by even the keenest observer, and walking past the open doors into the dark lobby of the apartment building.

On silent and quickened feet, he makes his way up the stairs – not bothering with the passenger lift – to the third floor where he already knows his man's apartment is on. The number on his door says Room 7. Once again adjusting the cap on his face, his left hand grasped tight on the bat, he raises his right hand to the doorbell, hearing a distant ringing coming from within. In no time comes the approaching sound of feet and then he feels and hears it stop at the other side.

* * * *

Quincy has a towel wrapped round his waist and is about to jump into the bathroom when he hears the ringing doorbell. His first thought is that Ann-Mary has most likely forgotten something – her house keys, perhaps – and had hurried on back to pick it up. Forgetting the shower's running water, he heads past the living room towards the door, fumbles for the lock and pushes the door open. It takes less than a second for the smile on his face to diminish.

The last thought on his mind is that whoever this person is, he's got the wrong room – the dopey Rodriguez clan reside just down the hall from him. This is what's about to come off his lips when the strange man in the thick clothes and Yankees cap unearths a baseball bat to his face, whispers something to him – hey there Quincy, my bone – before swinging the bat upon him, exploding both darkness and pain upon him. The last thing he consciously sees while lying sprawled across the floor is the door closing behind a pair of feet as a bat swings forward like a horse, carrying tales of permanent goodnight on its back.

* * * *

And such is how the cookie crumbles: Ann-Mary returns home a little past five in the evening. She opens the door and is startled to find Jeffery seated on his favorite chair. He sits there with his shirt partly open, his eyes focused coldly upon her. She sees this in his eyes and knows already that something's wrong. There's a glass with an opened bottle of bourbon standing on the coffee table beside his chair. She takes faltering steps into the living room and halts with only the table separating them.

"Jeffery ... you're home early, what's up?"

He speaks in a slow tight voice: "I thought I'd come round to settle something ... some gulf between both of us."

"What gulf are you talking about?"

And then like a magician performing a trick, he turns up his right hand and out comes a card which he then flips towards her. It lands close to her feet; she doesn't need to pick it up to see the familiar name of her lover and his number scrolled under it to know that her moment of truth has just come to a crossroad.

She's still gazing down at the card and doesn't hear her husband rise from his chair. By the time she turns to look at him, he's standing a foot from her, his face squeezed into a mask of throbbing menace just waiting to be unleashed. And then she glances down and notices the folded belt in his hand. She only has time to blurt out "WAI –" before the hand comes up and she feels the weight of the belt lash on her face and she slumps to the carpet. He hovers over her raining down furious blows, yelling down at her:

"HOW COULD YOU GO AND DO SUCH A THING, ANN? HOW COULD YOU ... WHY SHOULD YOU? ..."

She does nothing, not even make any attempt at fighting back, except cry out from each falling lash and continue to accept her punishment. For a moment it felt as if the beating would never end.

From that night, they sleep in separate rooms. The weekend came and went almost forgotten with neither of them barely setting eyes on each other; they never made the engagement to Bob's yacht.

9.

That was three days ago.

So here she is, still lying in the bed, her eyes observing the ceiling fan's spinning blades, asking herself the Million Dollar Question: what next? You going to pack up and leave, most likely seek a divorce and move on with your life, or are you going to continue acting meek and seek forgiveness? Say maybe that even happens ... what next? Is everything going to return to what it once was with Jeffery? The dilemma rages like a typhoon in her head, giving her no space for solace or comfort, except for a mild headache. She hadn't been to the office since the week began. She'd called and told them that she had a serious flu and was on serious medication and won't be able to make an appearance at least for another week; she was granted two.

And what about Quincy?

She hadn't heard from him since that fateful day and ringing his phone hadn't helped any at all. Instead of the sound of his voice, all she'd gotten was a toneless feminine operator telling her that the number no longer exists anymore. After leaving MacDonald's office yesterday for her final therapy session, she'd driven over to his apartment building and gone up to the flat where he lived only to find his door permanently boarded up as if they hadn't been anyone residing there before. Even the landlord's answer had been too vague to and unyielding to satisfy her questions: sorry ma'am, but what can I say – dude just upped and left. He ain't the first Johnson in here and believe me, I've seen 'em all. Guess he just got tired of stayin' in these here parts. She'd as well stopped by his software emporium and found nothing except a WE'RE CLOSED signboard staring back at her from behind its meshed front door.

The question is still staring at her in the face and suddenly she comes to a decision, one she knows there will be no going back from. She pushes herself up from the bed and goes over to open the double doors of her closet. Nestled in a corner lying beside a pair of her husband's golf shoes lies a traveling bag that hadn't been used by either of them in a long while. She picks it up and takes it into the bathroom to wash off the film of dust that lay over it.

10.

"So, what are you going to do now?" it's John putting the question to her as the inevitably arrive close to the end of their final chit-chatting session.

"I'm going to divorce him," she answers with a straight face; fingering her shades which lie on her lap. "I've spent so much nights thinking about it, and it think it's the only answer I can come up with. But I don't yet know if it's the right answer." Then she throws the question back at him. "What do you think, John? Would that be the right thing to do?"

"That's an unprofessional answer for me to give."

"It's not an answer I want from you," she says. "I want your opinion, professional or otherwise."

"Is you mind seriously made up on this, regardless of whether or not I disprove of it?"

"It is."

"Then I guess you'd better take it, whichever way you want."

"That's just the type of answer I was expecting to hear from you."

"Have you told him about it yet?"

She shakes her head. "I'll make it out as a surprise. First, I'd like to get as far away from that house as possible. I can't take another day of being there."

"How about a divorce lawyer? I can recommend one for you if you wish ..."

"It's okay, I'll take care of that. And besides, I doubt if I'll be wanting much from him."

"Hmmmm, looks like you're going to be doing alright then."

She laughs, feeling the first sign of happiness since the week began.

Haphazardly, she throws in whatever she could lay her hands on into the open mouth of the bag, but leaves the heavy stuff behind, knowing she'd come right back for them once she's settled. She leaves a short note for Jeffery on the living room's center table detailing her intentions for a divorce and also for him not to bother waiting up for her, since she won't be coming back ... at least not tonight. She leaves the car keys for him on the table as well before switching off the lights round the house and existing past the front door and walks towards the front of the driveway.

It doesn't take long before she spots a cruising empty taxi and flags it down. She has not appropriate destination on mind at the moment so instead informs the man behind the wheel to merely drive on. She watches the house disappear behind her, feeling a life she'd once have part ways with her. And that's when her eyes come alive with tears, but whatever she was crying for, she couldn't figure. Perhaps it's for a future still too far away to be seen.