This past Friday night was the worst. He had gotten home
later than usual, and when she had asked him how his day had
gone, hoping for a hint of something special for their
anniversary the following day, he had told her all about his
meeting with his executive staff, that they had granted their
support to work closely with ICP. This was just the beginning, he
told her excitedly. How many times had she heard that? When the
truth was that their marriage had ended long ago, when, drunk on
the very potion that had earned him esteem, she had gone
overboard, landing in the lagoon with a bloody splash. Yes, that
was when she had lost him, lost them.
And that, she knew, was the real reason why she could not bring
herself to call Jean-Pierre. Now, for probably the twentieth
time, she picked up the telephone and merely stared morosely at
the green digits glowing enticingly before her. She had memorized
the phone number, not by digits, but by the pattern of tones that
she played over and over with her index finger. Each time she
pressed every digit in his phone number except the last, the
six-note Touch Tone song deepening her dilemma because it
reminded her of one of International Foods' stupid little
commercial jingles for soda pop or corn chips. And, of course,
the real reason was that when she dialed, she had to look at her
hands, which, since the accident, had never been seen or held by
another person unless they were gloved, and even then she would
only offered the right one.
Pages:
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280