As he set the table, he wondered if she was dancing again.
He imagined her moving from side to side. Free and graceful. A spectacle of beauty that stopped him in his tracks. Superb in every way, like melted chocolate dripping slowly down a swath of white silk. It was all the better for the decadent stain. Her long arms and legs turned to black streams of water before his eyes. She was the rising ripple in the river. The camber of a deep-sea wave.
She needs to be out of my house first thing in the morning…
“Dinner!” he called out to her as he lit a couple of old candles—already semi-used and dusty. He hadn’t lit them since the power had gone out several years ago. Now, he had a backup generator. Such things no longer happened under his watch.
Kim stepped barefoot into the dining room. He peeked at her bright pink toenail polish against her brown skin before sliding a chair away from the table and helping her have a seat.
“It smells good… thank you.” She sat down, and he scooted her in. She opened her napkin and positioned it over her lap in a classy move, as though she was at some fancy restaurant.
He walked to the other side of the table and sat down, making quick work of cutting up his fish, and taking a good gulp of wine. He’d taken several bites before noticing her eyes were closed, and her hands clasped together. He swallowed. As quietly as he could, when she was finished with her prayer, he started eating again.
“I’ll make it up to you,” she mumbled, her gaze fixed on her plate.
“Make what up to me?”
“You havin’ to do all of this. Go out of your way.”
He shrugged and placed his fork down, clasping his hands.
“I’d just be here planning to take over the world like Pinky and the Brain. With you, I have an excuse to skip a night. I’ll put my laser beam tanks away.”
She chortled at that as she raked her fork over her sweet potato, pushing the butter and nutmeg into the soft orange folds. Truth be told, he was only half kidding. He constantly brainstormed ways to exact pain on the people who’d let his boy down and subsequently caused the death of his ex-wife. The police chief. The folks who’d made fun of the situation, people he’d once helped in one way or another, and so many others. Sometimes, he got the chance—like when Terry and his friends were racing their snowmobiles in the park last year and got stuck.
Terry was Frank’s boy. A smart-mouthed son of a bitch who couldn’t protect a damn fly that was pinned to a wall. Dumb as a blade of crushed grass. He heard over the radio the calls for help. ‘Five guys with vehicle problems. One possibly hurt.’ They needed a ranger out there to check on things. He said he’d go out so no one else would pick up the command, but then waited over two hours before he suited up to go get the jerks. He’d watched some movie first—couldn’t remember what it was. Drank a beer, toyed around on his phone.
He was disappointed to find them still breathing when he finally arrived on site. They were visibly distressed—one had run into a tree and was bleeding from the forehead. For a brief moment, he fantasized about shooting each and every one of them twice in the chest and being done with it. Just in case it was one of them who’d killed his boy.
“You cook good. I mean, well.” Kim eyed him as she chewed, her shining dark brown eyes so pretty.
“It’s all right. I’m okay with cooking fish. Everything else on this plate is mediocre.” He gulped down the rest of his wine, trying to ignore how her sweet, feminine perfume filled the air and how her pretty face and the way she moved in her seat made his manhood rise.
Things were progressing. For the worse.
The more time he spent around her, the more turned on he got. He didn’t want to ruin her, give her false hope. It was hard finding women to sleep with around these parts, especially with no strings attached. He didn’t want a relationship, only his sexual needs met when the need arose. Regardless, he could sense she’d be the wrong one to try that with, no matter how tempting. It might break her down, but instead of saying so, she’d just take off again like she did before.
“You’re too modest,” she said with a smirk as she brought the wine to her full lips and took a taste.
“I put a t-shirt of mine on the bed for you, and a pair of shorts.”
“That was thoughtful.”
“The shirt’ll swallow you. Good as a nightgown—old but clean, fresh out of the laundry. The shorts will fall down if you don’t fold over the waistband a time or two, but they’re new. Never worn ’em. If you need some socks, I got those, too. ’Course they’ll probably go up to your knees and hang off your feet like deflated balloons. I wear a size fourteen.”