w i n t e r
imitator of cicero
The envelope gave way and tore, biting into her index finger. She sucked on the cut, and felt the slick blood on her skin. With the other hand she shook the paper free. It tumbled onto the pub table in her dimly lit dining room and she settled down in a solid oak chair to read.
She didn't think he could keep up. Not with that last question, no way. He didn't have the energy or the time to fill in the blanks she'd left him, even though it had all been in front of him the entire time. Right there at the end of the bar.
That's why she liked her games so much. It was all so obvious.
But he'd sent the letter straight away. It was post-marked the next morning and he had scribbled the time right by the stamp. 6:45 a.m.
She sat there inhaling deeply because if he was right she wasn't sure what she was going to do about the evening to come. Because if he was right she no longer knew where she stood. Because if the single piece of off-white paper that lay on the table indeed said what she was fairly certain it said...
"CP--Book IV, Prose 2--B"
She ran to the bookcase knowing already what she'd find. Page 74, 75, no...no...down, a little farther, she stopped near the bottom of page 79. The she slumped to the floor. He had done it. She had wanted to get the mail earlier. She had wanted to go out but she had not. She tucked her forehead into the soft spot between her forearm and bicep. If she had only gone out earlier she wouldn't be faced with this at twilight. She had but on thing left to do.
The fire escape. Under the flower pot, a pack a cigarettes she'd hidden from her friends when she said she'd quit the week before. They were crumpled and she'd soon have to buy more, but for the moment it was all she could do.
goodnight 1.05.99