A Swing and a Miss

By | October 8, 2011

Freewrite for 2011-10-08 – we have a first line (in bold, below) and 10 minutes. I did not get a complete story, but this is perhaps the beginning of a longer story.

Making the best of a bad situation, Jonas picked up the tennis racket and began swinging. Typically he’d be on the 4:47 home to Marblehead, smelling with memory the roast on the table at 5:35 and the news at 6:00. But though today had started out normally, he had been shoved from his ordinary life at the Plymouth Street exit while descending the crowded stairs with thousands others on the way to their ordinary jobs in ordinary office buildings.

“You’re about to make a big mistake,” a voice said to him from behind, and then felt a poke in his back.

He tried to turn his head.

“No, don’t turn. Act like we’re just in a crush. We’re going to that car over by the curb.”

He turned to look. There was a long glossy black town car parked with a chauffeur standing beside an open door, gesturing him in. He could see someone sitting the cool dark, but could not make out more than that – except she had impossibly long legs and red heels that glinted in the cool Boston morning sunlight.

He ducked as he got in. “I won’t be joining you,” the voice behind him said, and slammed the door.

He turned to look at her. She was blonde in all the right places and smooth in the rest. A tiny chain of pearls looped around her long neck like beads of water on a Corona. Waves of glossy hair cascaded around her shoulders.

It was Evelyn. “Long time, Jonas. Hear you have a nice life in the suburbs. Missed you. Had Pierre find you.”

He sighed. “What is it this time? A toy balloon escape at the museum and it’s stuck up in the ceiling? Lost an asparagus collar and you need someone to blanch the crop in Visalia? Or are we after the same thing again – the Windsor Cup?”

She smiled, a long smile that revealed the talents of her dentist and plastic surgeon, a white picket fence surrounded by a gash of red lipstick. “Jonas, that’s all I want this time. Really.”

“Is the this the last time for sure, Marguerite? Or is this another ‘last time’ until the next time. Kathy is getting suspicious. She doesn’t see how an insurance actuarial supervisor keeps needing to have these sudden overseas trips. She thinks I’m having an affair. And this” – he spread his arm at the interior of the towncar, pointing to the glittering cut-glass decanters, the flowers in the side vases, the long table with choice delicacies for the bored – “doesn’t help. For all I know she’s having me followed.”

She laughed, and took an olive from the bowl, idly rolling in around in her fingers before placing it delicately in her mouth. A languorous swipe of the tongue and her sharp even teeth bit in in half. “Your wife is so perky and good for you, Jonas. I envy her, but I don’t want you. I just need you.”

“This has to be the last time.”

“How’s the job going for you, Jonas? Paid off your student loans yet? How about the medical bills for – what’s her name again? Brittney?” She moved and kicked him, subtly, then rubbed his leg with the tip of her carmine shoe.