2. By the crack in the door David Green could see
her. She had gotten so brazen that she
walked right up to the threshold of the apartment door and kissed him
longingly. They entwined their fingers
together, as if to suture their separate selves. And when he moved toward the steep set of
stairs, their hands would remain attached until it was necessary for him to
pivot and turn and take the steps down. Green
often thought he would fall. Green moved
quickly away from the door and sat in the chair, shielding his face with
yesterday’s New York Times. He heard her
near the front door, hanging her coat on the heavy, tipping, oak coat rack. She moved about loudly, opening and closing
doors, slamming cabinets. Then he
realized it was silent and she was standing in front of him. She was drinking something in insolent sips. “Dave, we have to talk,” she said between
sips. Green remained behind the
paper. “Would you look at me Dave?” He let the paper down. Her hair was wet. “We can’t go on like this Dave,” she said,
taking another sip. “Like what?” “Like this, you know Dave.” “Not really,” “I
don’t know if you’re the idiot or I am.”
“Do you want that question answered?” “Don’t be an ass. I see you looking at the
door. Every day I expect a scene but there’s nothing.” “You want a scene?” Dave said, moving toward
the coat rack. “I’ll just leave. What
more needs to be said? You just want the
satisfaction.” She grasped him, and the heavy coat rack fell, nearly hitting
his skull. He moved around it and out
the hall without his coat. “It’s
raining,” she called after him. “Then
I’ll get wet.” She trailed him. “I have to tell you something.” She grasped him, but he pushed her away. “I need an explanation,” she said, and he
managed to say “From me?” before he realized he was at the lip of the stairs,
backward, without a chance of changing his trajectory. She reached out: their fingers grasped and then slipped and Green fell. His body rested on
the landing at a strange angle. David Green
was dead.
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