Sunday Evening. Part II

Heney leaves the envelope with his notes she scribbled on next to his plate until he is done with his supper.

He picks up the envelope and idally taps it on the cleared table. Taking a sip of his coffee, he sets the mug back into the saucer and opens it.

The pages are out of order; so he rearannges them before reading. He handwriting is hard to read, as with her right hand, it is shakey and uneven.

But on the first note where he had written:

I told the story, because you tempted me with love, but when I told you I trusted you; you told me not to. I am still at a loss for a meaning to your glib behavior.

She had scrawled in the margin:

Sometimes hate and loathe make a safer relationship than love.

He thought she might have a point; as he had seen love turn to murder too many times.

He turned to his second note; the one that read: Did you mean to play with words in such a manner? That could be dangerous little girl. The body of a woman is an interesting instrument; one I may have already mastered.

She wrote back: You're body is a wonderland I would rather explore than master.

He ordered another coffee, and went outside to smoke. He stood there wondering about her words, and if she really did want him or more to the point what she was really up to.

As he walked back to his table his phone buzzed, he read the screen which said, “She fell down a flight of stairs leaving a friends apartment. Dislocated shoulder. Stopped in at an urgent care.”

He deleted the message as he sat back down; in his absence a hot cup of coffee replaced his half full one that had cooled.

He added sugar and toyed with the small spoon for a moment, before going back to reading.

On the note where he had written: You may have a point baby girl, but I am a learned man. You will always play the fool in love to get your way, and to manipulate someone. This I know and let you do. It is a lifestyle for you, and while I care that you hurt yourself in your game of love; it upsets me, but not enough to stop it or you from the way you just are. Your introspective comment is more false than the love you pretend.

She had written back: It wasn't introspective and it wasn't about me. We both know that.

He simply tucked the page behind the others, and read on:

I don't have an option. It is not false bravado; it is survival. Is what she had written next to his words of: Little girl, have you hired a ghostwriter. Little tiny tough you does not exist; even in the false bravado of your words. I can already hear you telling me your not little; so I will quash them already with 'yes, you are.' So, truthfully, you write this needing me to fix something, but not admitting you cannot do much in this big world. I could say I wonder what it is, but I will not lie. I already know, but might let you hang by a thread.

He tucks the notes in his jacket pocket while pulling out his phone. He types “See what she spends the money on.”

The response is immediate; “She's alone at the bar at the top of the ferry bridge. Ordered drink number three. Bought an outfit at Nordstrom's and shoes at Macy's.”

He wonders briefly why, but is sidetracked as his drinking buddy sits down across from him.

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