Charlene wore her stockings inside out because the silk was too grande to be exposed to the unforgiving air, the intermittent collisions of dust and flies the only movement in the apartment. She pulled them up over her bellybutton and lunged backwards and forwards, the elastic in the waist a bit more snug than the last time she'd worn them. It felt wonderful to be contained by something so extravagant. The thick black seam that ran up behind her calves created a modicum of balance, the overall glamor of it dulled slightly by the seams facing the wrong direction. But Charlene was not trying to impress anyone.
Over the toes of the stocking, only slightly discolored with wear, she stepped into a pair of turquoise heels, pointed stilettos, three and a half inches off the ground. She adjusted to the height cautiously, first with small, timid steps that soon gave way to exaggerated glides across the hardwood, one foot crossed in front of the other, runway style. In the kitchen she caught a glimpse of her legs' reflection through the oven. In a past so distant it felt like a dream, Leonard had once described her as 'impossibly beautiful'. In ways, it was still true. But it was still impossible.
Crossing back into the living room, Charlene scanned the room for more layers. Outside, dusk was settling over the city, sinewy shadows draped over the windowsills like desperate hands. Outside, it looked like snow. She picked up a red polyester sweater off the floor and pulled it over her torso. It hung awkwardly over her gaunt shoulders and fell just above her knees. She knew she must have looked like a child playing dress up in her mother's clothes. She pulled the sleeves down over her arms and hugged them round her chest.
She continued her gallant gait through the rest of the apartment and cleaned up as best as she could. She picked up piles of newspapers and magazines from the coffee table and stuffed them in Leonard's briefcase next to the recliner. She folded all the blankets on the end of the couch, pinching her nose as she approached it. The smell was gaining in waves. She swept up a small pile of broken glass just outside the bedroom door and changed the garbage bags, throwing the soiled linen in with the rubbish and stepping into the hallway to toss it down the chute. A neighbor, presumably home from work, stood outside her own apartment in business casual attire, and stared unabashedly at Charlene. Charlene stared back, unsmiling. Let her look, she thought. She turned around and strutted back into her apartment, deliberately tossing her piles of dark, unwashed hair behind her. She slammed the door.
Giving the place a once-over, Charlene knew there was nothing more she could do. She went to the bathroom to urinate. She ran her fingers up and down her legs while she sat on the toilet, the rivets of the silk under her nails so tangibly lovely. She stood up and washed her hands, wet a towel and scrubbed the two days of stale make-up from under her eyes, and dried her face. In the past forty-eight hours she had seemingly aged ten years. A purple bruise blossomed incongruously at the peak of her cheekbone. She touched it lightly, and though the immediate throbbing berated her contact, she did not wince. She opened up the medicine cabinet and applied a fresh layer of red lipstick. She patted her mouth on a piece of tissue. She did not cover the bruise.
She crossed back into the living room and looked around the apartment for a cigarette. She found a pack under the coffee table and cursed herself to find it empty. Of all days, she thought. Suddenly she realized that Leonard had brought some with him, her brand, to entice her. She gathered herself and walked over to the couch. She looked at him with disgust. His mouth agape and the hair greying at his temples matted stickily to his forehead. His open eyes seemed to gaze apologetically into hers, as his podgy hands rested unseemly at his crotch. She knelt beside him, trying desperately not to linger near his forehead, where the hole gave the false impression of cleanliness. The real damage was behind him, painting the wall with an almost intentional looking splatter. With her index finger and thumb she lifted a corner of his shirtsleeve to expose the pocket of his trousers. She dug her hand in as quickly as she could, holding her breath, until she found the pack. She exhaled.
She stood back up and picked the phone up out of its cradle on the other side of the room, and grabbed a box of matches. She plopped onto the recliner facing Leonard and crossed her stockinged legs in front of her. She dialed and waited for a ring, but it went through immediately. No time to re-think it.
"911, what is your emergency?" A woman's voice. Calm and slightly accented.
"There's a dead man on my couch," Charlene replied flatly. "I'm afraid he's starting to stink the place up. The corner of 81st and Riverside. Apartment 3B. " She hung up the phone and scanned the room once more. The pistol, shiny and lacquered like a toy, sat unobtrusively on the coffee table, facing outward. She smiled to herself and pulled the handle on the recliner, stretching out her legs to admire the stockings once more. She licked a match across the box and lit her cigarette, leaning back in the chair. She flicked the spent match on the floor below her, letting the smoke wisp around her like a shawl. She leaned her head back and inhaled. In the distance, she could hear the sirens.

09/09/2011

Posted on 09/09/2011
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer