My Love (Bwwm)

"Dont Turn Your Nose Up at Me!"

Artie's grip on my arm was firm as he pulled me out of the pool, the cool water dripping from my body onto the tiled kitchen floor. The dim light cast shadows on his face, revealing a mixture of frustration and concern as he deposited me unceremoniously onto the kitchen counter.

With bloodshot eyes he yelled at me "You're causing too much  Goddamned trouble, Dorothy. If you don't want to work for me, you can go back to the slums of Louisiana and live in poverty. Huh? Do you want that?".

His words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the power dynamic that existed between us. Frustration bubbled within me, fueled by the uncertainty surrounding Artie and the mounting enigma of his mansion.

Without thinking, I lashed out, my hand connecting with his cheek in a resounding slap. The room fell into an uneasy silence as his face turned crimson with the imprint of my hand. The weight of my actions settled in, but my frustration pushed me to speak.

"I'm tired of your cold demeanor! I've done nothing but my job. You are a sick man?" I yelled, my voice a mix of anger and desperation. "Yelling and screaming won't change the fact that you're rich because of blood money, Artie. How dare you turn your nose up at me and tell me to go back to the 'slums' as if you're some kind of savior?"

The atmosphere crackled with tension as I continued, a torrent of emotion breaking through.

Finally I let out "I've watched you sleep with woman after woman, and I've seen you kill a man in cold blood. You have no right to judge me."

My words, a raw expression of the realities I had witnessed in Artie's world, hung in the air.However, Artie's response was chilling. Without uttering a word, he grabbed his coat and hat, the echo of his departing footsteps leaving the room in tense silence. Regret washed over me as I realized the gravity of my actions and the person I had just confronted.

As the door clicked shut behind Artie, leaving me alone in the dimly lit kitchen, I found myself perched on the counter, the cool surface beneath me a stark contrast to the warmth of the confrontation that had just unfolded. The echoes of our heated exchange lingered in the air, accompanied by the haunting realization of who I had just slapped.

I rubbed my hands on my dress, a nervous habit that portrayed the stress coursing through me. The weight of the moment settled in as I replayed the scene, my audacity confronting the enigmatic man who held the key to the mysteries surrounding this grand estate.

In the heavy silence that followed, a sudden knock on the door shattered the solitude. My heart raced with anticipation, hoping against hope that it was Artie returning. I rushed to the door, swinging it open quickly, only to find Floyd In the doorway, Floyd stood, holding a vibrant bouquet of flowers as if offering a peace offering. The colors seemed to dance in the dim light, and he extended them toward me with a charming smile. I took the bouquet, my hands shaking slightly, caught off guard by this unexpected gesture.

"These are for you, pretty lady. A little something to brighten up your day."

I hesitated for a moment, my guard still up after the earlier confrontation. However, the genuine kindness in Floyd's eyes softened my reservations, and I decided to accept the flowers.

As he stepped inside, I felt a twinge of uncertainty. Nevertheless, a sense of hospitality kicked in, and I offered to fix him some tea.

"I... I can make some tea if you'd like."

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As Floyd and I settled into a conversation, the air was heavy with the scent of the flowers he had brought. His tailored suit exuded an air of affluence, yet his demeanor conveyed a sense of understanding.

Floyd: "So, Dorothy, how did you end up in this business with Artie?"

I hesitated, contemplating how much to reveal, but his patient gaze encouraged me to share my story. I began recounting my childhood in Louisiana, the memories of my father teaching me to swim in the river, and the bittersweet moments of familial love and comfort.

Dorothy: "After my father passed away, things changed. My mother and I had a falling out, and I left for Illinois, hoping for a fresh start."

Floyd nodded sympathetically, sensing the pain behind my words. He then opened up about his own past, sharing that his father, once a free slave, had come up north and established a business in Tulsa. The conversation took a somber turn when he spoke of the Tulsa Massacre that happened a few short years ago, revealing that his father had faced financial troubles afterward.

Floyd: "Artie and his folks helped my father out. They're not all bad, you know."

Despite his attempt to paint Artie in a more favorable light, I couldn't shake the frustration and confusion that Artie's actions had stirred within me.

Dorothy: "But why is Artie so cold? He acts like I'm nothing more than a servant. I've done nothing to deserve this treatment."

Floyd listened intently, his eyes reflecting a mix of sympathy and understanding. As I poured out my grievances about Artie's mysterious ways and the recent confrontation, Floyd offered a perspective on Artie's character.

Floyd: "Artie's a tough shell to crack. He's been through a lot, and loyalty means everything to him. Maybe he sees something in you that he values."

His words did little to alleviate my frustration, but they planted a seed of doubt about Artie's motives.

As the night unfolded, I found myself opening up more to Floyd, sharing the burdens that seemed to multiply with each passing day. His presence, though unexpected, became a source of solace in a mansion that had grown increasingly isolating.

He left quietly in the dead of the night, and in the stillness that followed, I couldn't shake the feeling that my impulsive actions had set off a chain of events I couldn't control. I was so lost in conversation with Floyd i didn't even realize Artie had not returned that night.