Page 33 of Hello, Listener
“Yeah. They do. Thalia likes that kind of thing.” He smirks behind his phone.
“Shut the hell up, asshole.”
“Here’s your order.” The waitress comes back to our table and gently sets both of our white mugs in front of us. “One Americano. One black coffee.” Alan and I both nod in unison. She heads back in the same direction as before.
I pull out the tiny bottle of bourbon in the pocket of my leather jacket and pour about two shots into my small coffee cup.
“Black coffee?” Alan asks, taking a sip of his drink.
“Black fucking coffee,” I answer, from behind the rim.
Iinspect the prick’s fingers that I stuffed in a clear plastic bag before picking them up, and examine them closely.
The memory replays in my mind.
The feeling of my switchblade sinking into his flesh, it giving beneath my weapon like butter before a hot knife, has goosebumps covering my arms. The thought is dark anddevious,but it fuels the fire burning under my skin.
I need more.
The plastic is clouded with moisture from the rotting flesh it contains. The once tan skin is now turning darker, tinted with gray. The few tattoos he had on his fingers are harder to make out, the bloating making the ink look like black blobs.
Perhaps I should have considered the trophy I picked up that night. Maybe I should have taken the fucker’s phone instead. I would replay the sounds of him gasping for air every day. It would be a reminder of the day I got rid of the bastard that touched what didn’t belong to him. My cock goes rigid at the thought, and I adjust myself in my pants.
The asshole’s eyes are staring at me from behind an empty jar I brought from my kitchen cabinet. I filled it with alcohol I had in my medicine cabinet, a homemade attempt at preserving myprize. The two eyeballs float from the bottom and stay around the middle of the tall mason jar.
“What am I to do with you?” My fingertips stroke my chin as I ponder out loud. I move the jar upside down to scrutinize the way the spheres flowthrough the clear liquid to the top of the silver metal lid, then back down to the bottom of the jar.
With one look at my fingers, I wonder what someone would have done with mine in this situation. I know one thing: they would have needed more than one of those fucking sandwich bags. While I stretch my fingers, I compare the length to the ones sitting in front of me on the table. Who am I kidding? There is no real juxtaposition.
The metal chair creaks as I stand up, planting my feet on the solid concrete. The legs echo through the room as I push it under the white folding card table.
One day, this room will be filled with trophies—trophies that will remind me of the times that I saved Thalia. For now, there are only two, but deep down I hope–no, know–there will be more.
I will be the one to rid her of the people who stand in her way.
I will be the one who always keeps her safe.
Even if she doesn’t know it.
My footsteps echo in the empty storage unit while I walk to my large metal shelf on the other end of the room and place the jar and clear bag right next to each other, placing an index card in front of them.Rubenis written roughly in black pen. I ponder what name will be next to his. The thought leaves me curious as I leave the small space and slide down the red metal roll-up door, locking it up with my round, silver key.
Honey, I’m Home
The gold hands on the onyx face of my watch point to ten o’clock, which seems pretty late for a book club meeting. The night sky shows through the open curtains in our living room. I peer out the window behind my glasses, and hold my clear whiskey glass up to my lips while the lights of her car shine in through the large windows. The ice in the glass clinks to the sides when I set it down on the counter.
Standing at the island in the middle of the kitchen, I'm in the same clothes I wore to the office. A pair of dark gray slacks, my white button up shirt, a black tie, and my black leather Silvano dress shoes. I haven’t been home for long. My night has consisted of driving past Thalia’s apartment just to make sure she has been home. To my satisfaction, she was sitting in the same spot she was when I left after my little visit the other night. It’s better that she’s somewhere safe, rather than out in the town with a killer on the loose.
Ashley doesn’t know that; how would she know? She’s rarely ever home, and when she is, she’s in her own headspace. The topic of her loving husband seldom sits as a focus in her mind.
Today, however, she will see me.
I lean against the island and stare at the front door, waiting for her to come in.
“Long night of reading?” I say as she walks in the front door. It squeaks through the long hallway in the entryway. She gasps, holding her chest.Maybe she wasn’t expecting to see her husband in his own home.
“Fuck, Alan. You scared me.” Her blue eyes shoot daggers in my direction. I smile, lifting my glass up to my lips.
“My mistake,” I admit while she hangs up her white pea coat in our coat closet. She kicks off her slide-on canvas shoes and pushes them up against the closet door.Why can’t she just put them in her closet where they belong?
