PHILLIP THOMAS DUCK
EXCUSE
ME,
MISS
A novella
"Thus when we fondly flatter our desires, our best conceits do prove the greatest liars."
--Michael Drayton--
DESIRES
One
The night it all began to change for me was no different than usual. I spent it in the usual fashion, seducing another woman's husband. The seduction took place at LOOK, an art gallery in Jersey City, New Jersey. Close enough to New York to carry some of the same sounds and smells, but a touch less frenetic. The art gallery immediately drew me in with brick walls painted chocolate, gypsum plaster walls painted a light cream, and a hint of cinnamon and vanilla in the air. Muted lighting, low key. I almost didn't feel the usual pangs of guilt for what I was about to do.
Almost.
I spotted Beverly Marie Kingston's husband by a painting that took up most of a cream-colored wall. Age forty-five, but he looked a decade younger, the benefits of three days each week at an LA Fitness. He was cloaked in black slacks and an attention-seeking lime green shirt. Expensive leather shoes, Piaget timepiece, a diamond-encrusted platinum bracelet on his right wrist. He sipped at a glass of ginger ale, letting his shirt sleeve snake up his arm with each sip so all of the attractive ladies in attendance could catch the shimmer of his jewelry and put two and two together: wealthy and content spending that wealth on a variety of gaudy and unnecessary items. What many women foolishly considered a good catch.
I headed his way.
When I eased into his personal space he glanced at me briefly but went back to admiring the art. There'd been a slight hitch in his gestures, though, and so I knew he was in play. I lingered there beside him, like too much perfume, before moving on. But even after I'd stepped away I wasn't completely gone from his imagination. His mind was fixated, I'm certain, on the beautiful stranger in the form-fitting, red dress and three-inch heels. That quickly I'd become the muse in his fantasies. That quickly I had his nose wide open. I'm certain of this fact.
I found my way to an admittedly eye-catching sculpture and stopped there contemplating love at first sight. As I expected, Beverly Marie's husband sidled up next to me a moment later with his lies carefully thought out. A sip of ginger ale made his sleeve slip back once again.
I ignored him and the platinum bracelet on his wrist.
"Natalia truly outdid herself this time," he said.
I didn't respond, but lingered long enough to further infiltrate his thoughts. Then moved toward another sculpture.
"Excuse me, miss?" he called out for me in a deep baritone. A radio voice.
I kept moving, putting plenty of sway in my hips.
"Miss?" he called again.
I took that perfect moment to go ahead and turn back. Everything I did was calculated.
I eyed him, but still offered no words, just stood there smoking him over. His skin was a shade darker than nut brown. Hair cut close and absent of any visible gray; his face clean-shaven, free of razor bumps. Much taller than what I'd prepared for. About six-two. Wide-shouldered with strong hands that belonged wrapped around a woman's waist. Beverly Marie's preferably.
"I didn't mean to alarm you," he said.
"You didn't," I replied.
"But you walked off."
