Falling in Love Read online

  Is there something wrong with me?

  One could only assume that there must be.

  Barefoot and shirtless, he hadn’t even showered yet. Mark Jacobs sat on the couch, feeling pretty glum about things. To say he’d been making a real ass of himself lately would be a bit of an understatement. That would be one thing for sure. The TV had some kind of racing on and yet his thoughts were very much elsewhere. To say that Mark had regrets about his life right about then would also be an understatement.

  When the knock came at the door, he almost jumped out of his skin. Who in the hell could that be? It’s not like he had friends anymore.

  He got up and looked through the peephole before unbuttoning the latch, lock and chain.

  What he saw out there had surprised him, possibly even shocked him.

  “Hello? La—Constable Barrett?”

  She was alone.

  “Hi, Mark. May I come in, please?”

  “Sure.” He stepped back and she entered.

  “Uh, please, come in. Have a seat.”

  To his amazement, Laine handed over her heavy purse. She took off her long overcoat. She was in full uniform. Mark opened the closet, and realized that he didn’t have a single damned coat hanger in the place. He usually just took his coat off and hung it over the back of a chair. She blinked, and he stammered something incoherent, and so he ended up putting it on the end of his bed in the other room. Luckily, his bed was made. Old habits died hard sometimes.

  He was back in a moment.

  She was on the couch, sitting about a foot from the left end.

  There was a bottle of beer, pretty much getting down to the dregs, right there.

  “Got another one of them brewskis?”

  “Oh—yeah.” His eyebrows rose as he moved to the kitchenette area to get a couple more.

  When he came back she patted the couch to her right. With rising pulse, he set the two beers down and sat beside her.

  She kicked off her shoes, picked them up and tossed them over by the door.

  Laine looked at Mark, sitting there all panic-stricken and mystified. She had no idea what she saw in him. Vulnerability maybe. A certain kind of honour, maybe.

  Three tours in Afghanistan. Sniper duty, wounded in a rocket attack, commended for bravery under fire, campaign ribbons, discharged with the rank of Master Sergeant. He was just rotting away here on that fucking shitty disability pension.

  “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, soldier.”

  “Huh?”

  “Aw, come on. Mark. I know you got some.”

  Mark’s cheeks flamed red. He searched her face. He picked up his beer and had a drink. Luckily for him it was only his second, or the thinking faculties might have been a lot worse off. The TV droned softly in the background.

  Mark would hate loud noises, but then that was fine with her.

  “It’s all right, Mark. I’m off duty. I get off at six-thirty, sometimes seven o’clock. No, I just thought I would drop around and thank you for the lovely cheeseburger. And the fries. That was really very thoughtful of you.”

  Mark sat there looking down at the table, hunkered over. Then he sat up, and sat back and let out a long, shuddering breath. His eyes came up now.

  “Well. You’re welcome, of course.”

  His past sort of explained that ruthless control over his demeanor, also the fact that nothing scared him anymore. That was a real bad place for people sometimes, when things got out of control and they lost perspective. No one was immune to it, and yet she sensed some inner strength in Mark.

  He was a strong man, just one with no real purpose at the present time.

  “Come on.” She patted him on the left forearm as his expression hovered on mild disbelief. “I went to college.”

  He grinned slightly at that and then got all solemn again. Mark got up, went over, and reached in behind the books on his bookshelf and came up with a rolled-up baggie. He had some kind of papers. When he shook it out it looked like about two grams.

  She downed half a beer. Holding it in her hand, she watched him begin the process.

  He looked up at her unreadable expression. She took another long drink, holding his gaze and then casually looking around the room.

  “It’s quite a dump you got here. I like it.”

  “Thank you.” Sheepishly, he went to work.

  The place smelled like bacon and tobacco smoke, three-week old laundry, boiled eggs, and there was just a hint of bear-pit in there as well. It was neat enough, and well laid-out with its minimal furnishings.

  “I need to use the bathroom.”

  As she rose, Mark spoke with some confidence.

  “You’re in luck—I just cleaned it.”

  ***

  It didn’t take a fool to see what was going on here, but Mark sure as hell wished he did.

  He tossed the doobie beside the ash tray and drained his beer. He heard her water tinkling less than nine feet away behind a thin, hollow-core birch veneer door. Mark went out to his tiny kitchen and dug around in the back of the fridge. Having just been to the biggest food bank in town, he was faced with a momentary surplus of foodstuffs. It was mostly perishables and the truth was he found it hard to eat all that bread before it went bad. He heard the toilet flush in the background, other small noises. She might be a minute yet.

  He found the last couple of beers. He checked but then recalled he didn’t have any glasses. It was hard to believe that she might be genuinely interested in him.

  It’s not that he didn’t like her.

  If she wanted to bust him for something, there would be no stopping her.

  He found himself blinking back tears and had to hurriedly dry his eyes with the tea-towel.

  When he came around the corner his eyes rose, his mouth was open to say something and then Mark froze on the spot. She was sitting on the couch.

  Constable Laine Barrett picked up his lighter, and the joint.

  She was clad only in black fishnet stockings, leather hot-pants, a halter of the same colour, and long, fingerless gloves sheer gloves. Her wavy blonde hair was fully teased out.

  Laine wore a ribbon with a bow around her neck. Long silver pendants hung from her ears and she had spritzed on something pungent and enticing. He stared at her black patent leather shoes.

  “Laine…?”

  “Okay, soldier. Let’s get this party going.” The lighter snapped and she inhaled the sweet and piney smoke into her lungs.

  She patted the couch beside her. He stared at something so outrageous that it wasn’t even funny, a couple of sets of handcuffs on his coffee table.

  A small coil of rope.

  All that fits in her purse…?

  He closed his mouth firmly.

  Without a word, Mark set the beers down and sat. He looked at her. She handed him the joint.

  “Mark. I only have three little rules. Would you like to guess what they are?”

  Taking a quick slug of beer and never taking his eyes off of hers, Mark shook his head.

  “No, Ma’am.” He sputtered. “No, wait—wait…”

  “Go ahead. Take a guess.”

  “Ah. One. Ah…I will never disrespect you.”

  “Not bad—you’re close and getting warmer. Keep going.”

  Her left hand dropped down beside the couch and came up with a whip. She gave it a kiss, and then held it in her lap.

  “I will never embarrass you in front of your friends or fellow officers.”

  “Impressive. Very good. Bang on, sir. That’s Rule Number Two…one more.” She lifted the whip up to stroke his cheek, and she saw the flames of anger burst alight in him.

  This man, this broken man, and yet still so fine and idealistic.

  A dreamer in spite of it all.

  He still had some fire in there.

  It would be best to rekindle it, and to release it. All that pent-up desire. What Mark needed was a good woman, and he probably knew that very well.

  Otherwise, why hit on her in
the first place? She knew who she was all right.

  So did he.

  Deep down inside, so did he. He knew who he was, what he was. It was written all over him, in the way he stood, in the way he walked, in the way he talked.

  He was a good man going bad and someone had to do something about it.

  She lifted her beer, took a swig, giving him plenty of time to think, and then set the bottle down.

  “Laine. I will love you until the day I die—although that’s probably the wrong answer.”

  She chuckled, deep in the throat. Her head was on an angle, her chin was up and she smiled impudently at the serious look on Mark’s face. He put his beer down with a quick clunk.

  “No, that’s Rule Four.”

  He said he loved her.

  Examining it, she found it was okay. So he loved her then.

  “I’m sorry.” His head hung in shame. “I really am, Laine. I’m sorry. It just happens.”

  “Does this sort of thing happen very often?”

  His voice was very low and now he couldn’t look at her.

  “Naw. Once or twice, maybe.”

  He sobbed.

  No one could fake that. But what did it really mean?

  Maybe there really was a love at first sight. If true, she envied him for it. It was taking her a little longer.

  She leaned forward, pulled in her legs, and going half up on her knees. Mark tried not to look down, but he couldn’t escape the pull of her cleavage as she put her lips up close to his. She took him by the shoulders, still holding the whip.

  His body had gone rigid.

  “Hold still. One more rule.” She put a hand up behind his head and gave him a nice, long, wet kiss, being very aggressive with her tongue and enjoying the look on his face.

  Finally she closed her eyes and let him take the helm for a moment. Then she broke away. He knew how to kiss, anyways.

  He clung to her tightly, eyes wet against her. Her breasts were wet with his tears as she held him, the whip now cast aside.

  “Oh, God.” He sobbed. “Oh, Laine. Laine, Laine.”

  He seemed pretty resigned to his fate, and not too hard done by. Mark was too good of a man to waste.

  He pulled his head up and looked at her, tears running down his face.

  “Rule Three. If you ever catch me cheating on you, you will cut my balls off. With a very dull axe. Am I right?”

  Her eyes went all round and wide and ingenuous and for the first time since she came in, he sort of smiled, or at least made a brave attempt.

  “Bingo! Hole in one. Good boy. And for that, you get a cookie.”

  ***

  She took her time in stripping him down.

  Mark was still flat in the belly, and his arms and legs still had some tone. He would clean up well and was everything she had hoped for in a lover.

  Perhaps the anger inside him had something to do with that. It proved he still had some pride in there.

  His buttons were nice and easy to push. She took him on a wild ride and he responded well.

  All in all, she was pleased with her new acquisition.

  They lay on his narrow little bed. Neither one had really slept.

  She rolled over and looked Mark in the face.

  He was wide awake, drowsy in the swath of daylight spilling in through the heavily-leaded windows.

  “You checked me out, didn’t you?” He seemed very sad.

  It was amazing how quickly she could read Mark’s emotions. The Ministry of Defense cooperated with local police forces to some extent, although Mark had the right to privacy.

  It was all in how you presented it. But she had to know.

  It was wise to know.

  He propped himself up on his elbow.

  “What? No. No, I wouldn’t do that.”

  He smiled. It lit up his face and somehow she knew it was going to be all right.

  “Thanks for not whipping me…and such.”

  She stroked his hair.

  Laine was thirty-six years old and was still capable of having children.

  “Yeah, well.” Laine happened to know that Mark had checked her out as well.

  It would be wise never to let him knew that she knew—had known, everything she needed to know, before ever setting foot in the place.

  In the fog of war our training takes over.

  Mark must have been very confused, and yet he knew what he wanted to happen. He knew what he needed, what he must have if he was to go on.

  To simply go on.

  For surely there must have been times when he didn’t want to go on.

  He’d told her that in the late hours, just before the bright and bitter dawn came. He gave it all up, holding nothing back.

  There were times when he prayed to be taken, taken by God or taken by death. There were other things too.

  Somehow his instincts for survival took over and he found a strong female figure—and then he threw himself at her. His explanations were all very analytical.

  Mark had a strange way of looking at things.

  But it really was kind of sweet.

  Not that you ever needed a reason, really.

  Love has its own logic, and sometime that means no logic at all.

  Time and Place

  Jayne Fumbled for Her Spectacles

  Jayne Dickson fumbled around in her purse for her close-up spectacles, thick of lens and frame. She used them for reading and sewing but had so far resisted the need for bifocals or even trifocals. She cheerfully admitted that it was pure vanity. At her advanced age of twenty-nine, (and a half) it didn’t make much difference anyway. Not these days. The notion that she might once have had a love life was a cruel, nagging joke.

  Simply put, her eyes weren’t very good. They never had been. Why over-analyze?

  At least the people in Byzantine mosaics had all their clothes on. Some of the early Renaissance painters had some sort of fixation with rendering flesh, which was fine in the academic sense but also a painful reminder, sometimes, that she was but flesh too.

  If only.

  That’s the way it felt sometimes.

  The highly-pitched and rapid-paced voice of their tour guide Maurice Abdullah pattered away in the background. She’d never been this close to a real mosaic, Byzantine or otherwise, in her entire life. So far, they’d all been on the ceilings or high up on the walls. It really was beautiful, and yet the tour was at such a fast pace, eight countries in eleven days. On a whim of some previously unsuspected masochism, she’d counted up the stops listed in the brochure, forty-seven prime attractions in all, and they’d only done about seventeen or eighteen of them so far. She was dead on her feet. The temple was typical, with well-maintained walkways and specially-cleaned exhibits in some areas, and other parts were in ruins and off-limits, the tourists kept back by poles and chains and signs on the wall.

  There was one cancellation so far. She bit her lip and moved slightly to the left, out of the soft, indirect light to avoid throwing glare and shadows on the image. The old place smelled a bit musty, all dry stone and a thousand years of time. They always did the feet and the sandals the same way. There were maybe two different types of sandals that she had seen so far. In her limited knowledge, she didn’t know how significant that was.

  The cancelled stop was put down to an attempted suicide just down the block, and all the streets around their hotel were barricaded during that particular time-slot. That was in Ravenna, three days ago.

  She’d studied Byzantine Art on a whim, while majoring in English Lit and Creative Writing in university. It was an easy elective credit, a bird course, until all of a sudden she threw herself into it on some kind of love thing. For some reason, she wanted to do really well. It was like she realized her own potential, for the first time in her life, and then wanted to impress someone special with it.

  Professor Malloy, the resident Byzantine expert—and every university had one, was the most fascinating thing in the world, for about a semester. She’
d even fantasized about him physically once or twice. He must have been getting up near fifty-five, maybe sixty years old. An oddly compelling man, perhaps it was the simple authority of the teacher-student relationship. He was gruff but kindly, with big, strong peasant hands.

  She recalled those penetrating blue eyes.

  She bit her lip, moving on to another small mosaic.

  She supposed she looked good in her simple sun-dress, sleeveless and cut just above the knee, vaguely Greek in form, and done in a simple off-white that set off her newly-acquired colour. She’d been doing a bit of involuntary tanning, especially when she made the mistake of sitting on the sunny side of the tour bus. Jayne absently fiddled with the black glass rosary beads around her neck, a nice touch and oddly effective as jewelry.

  Jayne had an introspective streak, and lately, the time to indulge it. At one time she would have done it—the professor and her in bed together. She’d really believed it, wanted it at the time. She might very well have done it. What a whack-job she must have looked back then. Perhaps that accounted for her personal reservations about love and sex ever since. That, and the simple passage of time, and the setting in of middle-aged inertia. All of this at twenty-nine. And a half.

  The nerve it would have taken, in actually doing it—going off to some exotic place, halfway around the world of course, and studying art, cataloguing art, classifying and dating it. There was always some handsome man involved with those fantasies, pure feminine lechery, all narcissism it admittedly was. It had taken her a long time to grow up, in retrospect. Like many of her fads, this one too had passed. That was how she thought of it. But she had a propensity for dreaming the impossible life. It was like one of those lovely, dreamy old books on the top shelf, set front and center. The book you sort of read every year when winter sets in, comfort food for the lonely heart and jaded mind. It was the kind of book that you look forward to. It was her book, a private book, one she would never lend out for fear of not getting it back. It was an imaginary book, a book of dreams.

  She’d never done a thing with either English or art, although she liked books. Jayne really enjoyed art, in the general sense, in her own unpretentious way. She had some pretty and even kind of expensive water-colours on her walls back home. They were by an artist that was considered trendy at the time, and still worth collecting five years later. She just loved the pictures, and the artist himself, for their own sakes. Her mother had hated the fact that Jayne spent three hundred and fifty dollars, of her own money for crying out loud, on one piece in particular, no more than eight and a quarter by ten and a half inches. Perhaps it was an expression of her independence. Maybe it was the love. Mother was, had been, dependent upon her, far more than Jayne needed Mother. Of course she loved her mom and probably depended on her in some ways, all of which were emotional ties and not based on any real physical needs such as food or shelter. She wasn’t a child, yet mothers couldn’t resist treating their adult children like they would never grow up and didn’t know a darned thing in their own right.