The Courting

Five

An idea occurred to Angelo later that evening, as he watched Kimberly from the bedroom window upstairs. He could see two rows of women on the street, though some were hardly visible in the lamplight, walking in circles or rocking their hips slowly, some shifting in and out of Angelo’s view.

The idea was this: Maybe Angelo could redirect Kimberly’s affection back to himself. True, he didn’t quite know the intensity of her love, and this plan could easily backfire, but to him, any plan deserved a chance. He had to try it.

He couldn’t wait till morning. So that evening, he stumbled downstairs and went outside his house. He stood beside Kim in the cold-wrapped night, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and sighed.

"Cold night," he said. It felt strange to induce small talk as if Kimberly was a complete stranger.

"Oh, yes it is," Kim said, her eyes darting to him briefly and then flitting away.

"So—" Angelo felt weird for going this direction in the conversation, but he had already planned this for hours before, and he wasn’t about to quit so soon, "—are you seeing anyone?"

He could tell that Kimberly was taken aback by his sudden approach. She seemed to shrivel away in the dark.

"Well, aren’t you fresh," she said, her voice ladened with discomfort.

"I’m sorry," Angelo said. "You’re just a pretty girl and I—"

"Enough of that," she said quickly, though her voice still trembled slightly. Angelo couldn’t tell if it was because of the cold or her fear. He decided not to dwell on it and continued prying.

"So tell me about…"

"My love?" she said too quickly, boldly.

"Yes." Angelo cringed.

"He’s everything I’ve ever wanted. He’s my soul mate; I know it for a fact. He’s," she began to smile, her eyes shining brighter than the lamps overhead, "just perfect."

"Well, where is he?" Angelo inquired, growing frustrated.

Kimberly raised her eyebrows at him, as if he’d asked the stupidest question that ever was asked. "Can’t you look up?" she said scornfully.

Angelo looked up. "I see the sky. Cold, black expanse."

"Enough," she said sharply.

"Cloudy, starless—"

"I said enough!" she roared, slapping Angelo hard across the face.

He stumbled back, a sharp pain like concentrated fire biting his cheek, exploding in his head. He could see her eyebrows twitching with anger, her teeth exposed and knit together tightly. She was clenching them so hard that Angelo thought he could actually see them sinking slowly into her gums.

He held up his arms to keep a distance between them. Between he and his wife.

"Okay," he said. "I’m going inside now."

"Good," she said shakily. "Go and don’t ever come back."

He made an attempt to sleep. In his room Angelo could hear noises that he was not accustomed to hearing this late at night. He was sprawled across his bed, drunk off whiskey. He had drunk the remaining half of the bottle that was in the kitchen. He lay watching the fan swirl in rhythmic circles overhead, in the dark, and it sounded like a lazy helicopter descending. Angelo wondered if the blades of the fan could falter and fall on top of him, crushing his face in. With each spin, the center of the fan would wobble. Like a loose screw cringing under too much weight.

But the sounds outside earned the majority of his attention; laughs, wails, sexual sounds. Praises, songs, words of adoration.

Through the muffled glass, he could hear his wife below in the parking lot.

"I loveee you!" she was shouting. Her tone was so intense that it almost sounded like she was weeping. "Thank youuu! You’re my everythingg. My whole world."

Angelo listened numbly, his ears hot and ringing with drunken intensity.

"My soul, my song!" his wife said, her voice scratchy with exhausted passion. "Never leave, never go. Never go!"

And then the numbness veered him to blackout sleep.