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his face and cocked one eye open. The undeniable chill presaged a rainy, depressing, dismal February morning. The stale taste of the club's bourbon crawled up from somewhere deep inside him and flooded his dry mouth. Ugly reality! |
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"Harry." This time the voice was a little firmer, but still void of stridency. Flora was never strident. |
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"I'm up," he grumbled, knowing she couldn't hear him, yet hoping he wouldn't have to repeat himself. Harry hated to repeat himself. Harry mumbled, and he knew it. Still, it infuriated him that he lived in a world that didn't listen. He had considered having a little badge made that he could wear when he was on duty. A badge that would warn the world, "LISTEN CAREFULLY. I'M ABOUT TO MUMBLE." |
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The truth of the matter was, he wasn't up. He was still flat on his back in the middle of a big, oversized, empty bedempty because Janet wasn't there anymore. |
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How did she put it? How did she say it when she stood there, her face flushed, in a fit of feminine rage? He remembered, only pretending not to remember. He remembered the whole ugly scene verbatim. He remembered where she was, how she was dressed, how she looked and every other painful detail. |
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"You what?" she had shrieked. It was her |
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