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The End

Posted on November 30, 2007
Filed Under The Stories |

He approached her with all the finesse of a man trying to ice a cake with a forklift. She noticed the double take, the awkward easing onto the barstool and the ignorant flourish with which he attempted to get the bartender’s attention. Naturally the man behind the bar wasn’t used to being summoned with a snap of another man’s fingers so he did little to show any acknowledgement for her latest suitor’s need for lubrication. Apparently, an unresponsive bartender was as good an ice breaker as any for Mr. Smooth so he said, “What’s a guy got to do to get a drink around here hunh?”

Because he was still snapping his fingers she sighed and said, “Does your dog come when you do that?”

He looked confused, “Sometimes.”

“Yeah the bartender’s not going to come and he’s certainly not going to sit.”

Mr. Smooth frowned for a moment and then simply raised his hand and stuck his neck out and as if he had magically been freed of whatever invisible shackles were preventing him from looking in their direction thus far, the bartender eased over and said, “What can I get you sir?”

“Vodka Red Bull. And refresh the lady’s drink as well,” to her he said, “I’m Andy, by the way.”

“I’m not going to shake your hand Andy because my drink has left my hand cold and I don’t want that to be your first impression of me. My name however, is Janine.”

“Hi Janine. Such a pretty name.”

“And such a disposable compliment. You’re going to have to do much better than that Andy.”

He squinted at her, “Have we met before?”

She wondered and just as quickly banished the thought. He would have to have an eagle eye and superior training to have seen her before. He was short-sighted and lacked common manners. He had probably just dreamt of a woman like her. “No Andy, I think I’d remember.”

He studied her seated form and made no pretenses about how he checked out, “I know I would remember you.”

Their drinks arrived and he toasted her. She allowed the corners of her mouth to turn up in an approximation of a smile. Her pale skin against the dark clothing she wore gave her an alluringly distant air. Like something that should be pinched and twisted just so that a man  could watch some colour rush to the surface.

“What do you do Janine?”

“I drink tall drinks Andy. I buy expensive stockings that make my legs look bare and unbelievably inviting. I smoke long cigarettes, drink fine wine, wear expensive clothes and eat exquisite food. I tan on the most exclusive beaches in the world and I walk with the penguins. I snort coke off the washboard stomachs of sixteen year old boys and teach beautiful women how to use what they were given. I do very well for myself Andy. What about you?”

His mouth had fallen open as she began speaking so all he could do when she stopped was close his mouth and then take a hasty swallow of his drink, “Wow. I’m just an accountant.”

“Nobody is ever just an accountant Andy.”

“Yeah well I…paint. Still lifes mostly and I garden. Or rather I don’t kill all my plants. But yeah mostly I’m just an accountant.”

“Married?”

“Would that be a problem?”

“Only if I thought you lied about it.”

He held his left hand up, “No lies. See? The ring is still there. Fourteen years.”

“Is she happy?”

“Think I’d be here getting a drink alone if she was happy?”

“What went wrong?”

“Nothing unusual I think. Nothing extraordinary anyway. Like I said, I’m just an accountant living the accountant life cliché. You know I have a theory…”

Her eyebrows went up, “Is this theory going make me need another drink?”

He paused, “What? I don’t know. If it does you can have one. On me.”

“So generous. What was the theory?”

“The reason why the movies are so ridden with clichés…is because lives are lived as clichés. In that case why should art be different?”

“You think films are art?”

“They are definitely not commerce I can tell you that much! No other industry would support the sale of so many dubious products and survive. No, cinema is definitely art.”

She actually looked at him, for the first time and there was something akin to a real smile on her face, “That is an incredibly interesting theory Andy.”

He looked very serious as he said, “Oh, it’s not a theory. Cinema as art is a fact. Enough about me, let’s talk about you.”

She ran a finger along the rim of her glass and shook her head, slowly, thoughtfully, “There’s nothing to tell.”

“I sense a great sadness in you.”

The finger stopped, “What you really need to sense Andy, is whether there’s enough moisture between my legs.”

Naturally he was taking a drink at the time so naturally he choked. And spluttered. And spilt his drink down the front of his shirt. She watched it all with a calm eye and then she said, “I have a room in the hotel. You should come get cleaned up.”

 

In the elevator he said, “You’re a real hot potato aren’t you?” And he squeezed her ass appreciatively.

Then a thought occurred to him and he looked at her in the reflective doors of the elevator and asked, “Wait. Are you a pro?”

“Would that be a problem?”

“Only if I couldn’t afford you.”

The doors parted and she stepped out.

 

In her room he went to the bathroom and from the amount of water gushing from the faucet she knew he would leave a bigger mess than he cleaned up. Over the sound of the faucet she called to him while she reached for her purse, “Tell me Andover, whom do you work for?”

He popped his head out of the bathroom and said, “What did you call me?”

“Andy is short for Andover right?”

“Most people guess Andrew.”

He stepped out, unsure, like a child who doesn’t know why his uncle is naked and calling to him while everyone else is out at church. “What is this?” he asked with the air of someone expecting another person to pop out from behind a curtain and yell ‘Surprise!’

She brought her hand out of her purse and pointed at him with the accusing finger of a silenced gun, “I hope you had a decent insurance policy. Carmen and the kids could use the money.”

He started to ask a question but she placed a full stop at the beginning of that sentence, right in the middle of his forehead. Then she punched a colon over his heart, wiped the gun down and tossed it at his stomach. Janine Adams ceased to exist within seconds of the assassination of mob accountant Andover Colaita. Her handlers saw to it.

Three days later she was lying on a beach in Mexico, watching the college students get their freak on. She liked the blonde boy with the freckled abs. She decided it would be relaxing to have energetic sex.

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