Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 33

Her pointer finger arched in a loop as she lay in bed, becoming a trigger. She pulled it over and over again, always imagining the same frat boy as she did. John Coltrane played erratically from the living-room speakers down the hall. It made her think chaotically. It made her wonder how hard it would be to pull the trigger when the moment counted.

There was a man next to her in bed who was her, what, boyfriend?

No, no, no, no. Just a man who has his purpose.

He snored like a hog with a sinus infection, drowning the noise of Coltrane. It made her mad, and she pointed her imaginary gun at the ceiling, blowing it to kingdom come.

She looked over at him. His belly protruded from under the blankets like a bubble begging to be popped. He had thinning brown hair peppered with gray, standing up in a prickly mess. She was disgusted with herself.

Come on, Diane. Don't you have standards?

She did, but she also had needs. There's only so much a vibrator can do after all. This nameless chap was found at her local watering hole. It had been one of those days, long and lonesome. Whining patients had replaced her own nagging conscience. But that wasn't it; she had more on her mind than her insufferable Monday clientele. Sanford Crow loomed in her thoughts like an annoying, neighborhood brat, ringing her doorbell and leaving a flaming bag of shit to stomp out.

That's not fair, she thought to herself as she sat at the bar earlier in the evening with a tall, straight martini wavering in front of her.

Very unprofessional.

Who knew what course she'd set him on, or what could possibly unfold. It wasn't the right thing to do, she knew that. She should have at least waited for him to come home, and say what she had to say in a safe environment. But things had sped up faster than anticipated, and she was working on the fly.

At the bar, the schlub had approached her with undue confidence, inflamed by the scotch in his glass. At first, she wanted him to scram; she wasn't in the mood to play along tonight, to say all the things he wanted to hear, to act interested, to wear the smile. It all sounded so... tiring.

When she looked at him, it wasn't his looks that grabbed her attention, no. It was the wedding band on his ring finger, squeezing the life out of it, turning it blue.

"Hey, pretty lady," he slurred, "can I buy you a—"

"Martini, straight-up."

The smile on the drunkard's face went impossibly wide.

"You heard the gal," he said to the bartender. "Fill her up!"

The scene played over in her mind as she lay there in bed with him now, hoping, wishing, begging he'd go away. Was she so damaged that the only reason she fucked this man was because he was married? She tried not to ask herself such questions. With the way she'd been feeling, thoughts like that only fueled a growing fire. Besides, she didn't even come.

"Hey," she said to the hog snoring alongside of her again. "Hey!"

"Huh? What? I'm sleeping."

"Yeah, I know. So get out of here and sleep alongside your wife. This isn't a motel"

Wife brought pain to his eyes.

"Fuck, what time is it?" he asked.

"Time for you to go."

* * *

When he stalked his prey he felt alive. It was the only time he did. The curious part of him wondered if it really was his father in there, or some other monster with fangs, hollow and empty on the inside. Void of guilt. But for now, he'd given up thinking about it.