Read Seven Deadly Pleasures for Free Online Page A
Authors: Michael Aronovitz
its water through in a thin stream. If there was any sound that could really ground you, that was it. I got down two clay cups, did the sweeteners, and added the half-and-half with the pretty Native American squaw on the carton. A bird chirped somewhere, but it wasn't that distinct sound cardinals made when spring had truly arrived.
I turned to the window and looked into the back alley. The neat checkerboard presentation of windows and brick face was betrayed at the bottom by small pockets of trash that had blown up and settled in various areas of fencing. Of course, everyone had a different idea of what color a garage door should be and how long between paint jobs was appropriate. Wires crisscrossed each other up and down the row, and there was laundry hanging off some of them. The family across the way had left their mongrel dog out all night, and he was circling his pen with his gray tongue hanging out. He sensed me, pawed up on the fence, and barked hoarsely. We really had to get out of the city.
I poured the coffees and strode back through the living room. Potted coleus and fern stood like handsome soldiers beside the wall unit stacked with television, cable box, DVD player, and state-of-the-art audio system. The sun coming through the blinds made glare bars across my Monets hanging on the east wall. From upstairs Tina's voice tinkled like those high piano keys little girls trilled in the drawing rooms of movies about the old country.
"Honey, we need toilet paper up here!"
The hairdryer kicked on. I switched the coffees to one hand, opened the downstairs closet, and snagged a roll.
"We could have used a jumbo pack of these at the office yesterday," I thought with a smirk. "The old man must have shit himself at the close of trade when he saw my profit and loss at eight hundred and ninety thousand in the black."
Then again, he probably thought it pretty much par for the course by now. After my third interview and the ceremonial handshake nine months ago, he'd said they hired me at Rollins and Howell Financial because I was the most serious young man they had ever met. They thought I was the dependable young mule they could keep in the wings, and what they got was a thoroughbred that shot out of the gate. They had planned a straight and narrow path for me, and now pretty much scrambled to get out of my way. I was a risk taker with an incredible poker face. I had a great sense of humor, but kept it to myself. I loved being an enigma, time and again dashing those lingering impressions of conservative stoicism with broad and sweeping strokes of precariousness behind closed doors. I always went long, and I never asked permission. I almost always won, and didn't even smile until I got home.
Tina called me an "old soul." Still, every oyster had to have a pearl to give up once in awhile. I did confide in her. I told her my dreams, confessed my insecurities, shared occasional frustrations, admitted the different angles and depths of my love for her. I preferred to do that in bed, under the covers with the lights off. I liked the warming effect of her cheek to my bare chest, and the hollow of my neck. I liked her little rosebud lips and the way she dryly brushed them along my jaw line. I cherished those intimate exchanges, breath mingled with breath. Whispers.
"Baby, I love ya!" I called out loud while climbing the stairs.
The hairdryer stopped.
"What did you say, Mookie?"
I smiled. We were still in the stage of little pet names in private. It started as a joke and we fell into the habit. It was cute for now, and it would pass. That was OK too. As long as we didn't turn into a quarreling couple like her parents.
"I said I love ya! Whoops!"
"What?"
"My foot hit the base of the top step and I almost dropped the coffee."
She snickered.
"Klutz! You should work out or something."
"Cunt! If you keep sneaking handfuls of the Nestlé's morsels that are only supposed to be for baking, you're going to end up with a bitch-belly
I turned to the window and looked into the back alley. The neat checkerboard presentation of windows and brick face was betrayed at the bottom by small pockets of trash that had blown up and settled in various areas of fencing. Of course, everyone had a different idea of what color a garage door should be and how long between paint jobs was appropriate. Wires crisscrossed each other up and down the row, and there was laundry hanging off some of them. The family across the way had left their mongrel dog out all night, and he was circling his pen with his gray tongue hanging out. He sensed me, pawed up on the fence, and barked hoarsely. We really had to get out of the city.
I poured the coffees and strode back through the living room. Potted coleus and fern stood like handsome soldiers beside the wall unit stacked with television, cable box, DVD player, and state-of-the-art audio system. The sun coming through the blinds made glare bars across my Monets hanging on the east wall. From upstairs Tina's voice tinkled like those high piano keys little girls trilled in the drawing rooms of movies about the old country.
"Honey, we need toilet paper up here!"
The hairdryer kicked on. I switched the coffees to one hand, opened the downstairs closet, and snagged a roll.
"We could have used a jumbo pack of these at the office yesterday," I thought with a smirk. "The old man must have shit himself at the close of trade when he saw my profit and loss at eight hundred and ninety thousand in the black."
Then again, he probably thought it pretty much par for the course by now. After my third interview and the ceremonial handshake nine months ago, he'd said they hired me at Rollins and Howell Financial because I was the most serious young man they had ever met. They thought I was the dependable young mule they could keep in the wings, and what they got was a thoroughbred that shot out of the gate. They had planned a straight and narrow path for me, and now pretty much scrambled to get out of my way. I was a risk taker with an incredible poker face. I had a great sense of humor, but kept it to myself. I loved being an enigma, time and again dashing those lingering impressions of conservative stoicism with broad and sweeping strokes of precariousness behind closed doors. I always went long, and I never asked permission. I almost always won, and didn't even smile until I got home.
Tina called me an "old soul." Still, every oyster had to have a pearl to give up once in awhile. I did confide in her. I told her my dreams, confessed my insecurities, shared occasional frustrations, admitted the different angles and depths of my love for her. I preferred to do that in bed, under the covers with the lights off. I liked the warming effect of her cheek to my bare chest, and the hollow of my neck. I liked her little rosebud lips and the way she dryly brushed them along my jaw line. I cherished those intimate exchanges, breath mingled with breath. Whispers.
"Baby, I love ya!" I called out loud while climbing the stairs.
The hairdryer stopped.
"What did you say, Mookie?"
I smiled. We were still in the stage of little pet names in private. It started as a joke and we fell into the habit. It was cute for now, and it would pass. That was OK too. As long as we didn't turn into a quarreling couple like her parents.
"I said I love ya! Whoops!"
"What?"
"My foot hit the base of the top step and I almost dropped the coffee."
She snickered.
"Klutz! You should work out or something."
"Cunt! If you keep sneaking handfuls of the Nestlé's morsels that are only supposed to be for baking, you're going to end up with a bitch-belly