A Smudge of Gray (7 page)
Chapter 12
The cold wind blew a soda can across a
downtown sidewalk. Cars flowed through the streets like rats through the intestines
of a subway. It was still early enough for shoppers to fill the downtown
businesses, not afraid of the creatures that the shadows had vomited. Nestled
at the corner of empty cross streets, a sign ignited the night sky—“Al’s
Natural Foods.” The store was a place for the healthiest of healthy people to
shop, especially those trying to rid their bodies of unnatural components that
could cause premature death.
The door opened. A chime filled the
night air. Out strolled a woman in her thirties, a future cougar wearing a
fabulous white coat. She was a bubbly black-haired lady, the kind with the
French manicure, whitened teeth, and sculpted eyebrows that tickled the
attention of men no matter what their class. Her name was Janice Davis, but the
storeowner inside “Al’s Natural Foods” knew her only as Janice.
“Thanks. I’ll see you next week,” Janice
said as she used her butt to prop open the door.
“Wait. You forgot your Kombucha,” Al, the
gray-haired owner, said.
Janice scurried back in. “Oh, thank you.
I’m always forgetting something.”
The owner dropped the bottle into her
bag. “No worries, dear. How do you like the taste of it?”
“It’s an acquired taste to say the
least.”
“It promotes long life. Drink it with a
positive state of mind.”
Janice smiled, and then fought to open the
door, the bags weighing her down. “Thanks again.”
“You okay, dear?”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks,” Janice said with
a smile as she juggled both sacks.
As she walked, she thought of Al’s use
of the word “dear” when helping her at his store. She liked hearing that word,
those four letters pronounced by his vocal cords. She always wondered how old
he was, his gray hair tricking her age radar. Whatever his age, she thought he
was handsome, definite, firm yet soft. Although she had only used the store for
organic purchases for less than six months, she knew that she kept going back
because of the owner’s interest in her. She pictured herself next to him at a
dinner table at Sage or The Artisan, two of the city’s finest restaurants. She
pictured fucking him. But then she thought about her parents, who would
probably have more in common with Al than she would, except for the common
interest of fucking. She deduced that the desire to fuck would far outweigh a
conversation about a generation’s music or movies. Therefore, she figured,
fucking would be the biggest and best thing in common with Al.
Janice turned the corner on her way to
her city condominium. A late-model BMW crept down the road as its Xeon
headlights glistened off Janice’s exfoliated face. The car moved slowly as its
driver watched the sway of the lady in white. As the car neared her, its
headlights shifted and caught something else behind her, silhouetting it on the
side of a building. It was not the shadow of something inanimate or something small,
but rather the silhouette of something cunning. It was a man wrapped in a
trench coat, holding a briefcase; it was Trevor.
The car drove by as Janice focused on the
prattle of a passing couple. Even though she didn’t see the tail behind her,
she sensed it. The couple shifted by as Janice heard her footsteps change tone.
At first, she thought it was a heel ready to break, but then she realized it
was the sound of a second set of footsteps. They were hard and much more
powerful, a lion to her kitten. She turned slightly and saw the man lurking
behind her some twenty yards back. Her heart rate escalated as curious thoughts
of the shadow behind her clogged her mind. But as her body reacted, she
breathed a sigh of relief as her condo building glistened off her dilated
pupils. Janice scurried toward the lights where a trench coat surprised her,
the familiar trench coat of her doorman, also wearing a smile.
“Oh, let me help you, Miss Davis,” the
portly man offered as he dashed to the reflecting door, opening it.
“Thank you, Bob.”
“In a hurry?” he asked as she hit her
sack against the door.
“Just cold.”
The doorman watched her move into the
warmth as the screech of a cab turned his focus. He darted toward the yellow
taxi and opened the door for the arriving residents.
At that exact moment, the doorman turned
his head toward his post, an instinct ingrained into him ever since opening his
first door. He saw the couple exiting, but also the blur of black sneaking past
them. He was told to keep the vagrants off the sidewalk, but the unrecognizable
man with dark gray shoes who he saw entering, looked as if he owned the place.
Just as quickly, his focus shifted to his right hand. The doorman saw the
picture of Andrew Jackson, a gratuity from the arriving residents.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
A few moments later, Janice stood at the
bank of elevators in the lobby. The 72-degree air surrounded her, filling her
lungs and warming her soul. She felt safe, protected by the sanctity of
familiarity. Janice scanned a newspaper stand nearby as she waited with the up
arrow illuminated. She read the top half of the free city newspaper—“Annual
Crime Survey Finds….” But the fold hid the end of the phrase. Janice set down
one of her bags to flip the paper, but the ding in front of her changed her
focus.
The metal doors opened and Janice
stepped into the box. She pressed the button labeled “7” with her pinky finger,
and then waited for the doors to close. She looked down at the one-inch gap
between the elevator and the floor. She wondered how far she hovered above the
void below. Then the door closed, but the image of a shoe stole her gaze from
the gap. It was charcoal gray with a white patch accenting it. Janice watched
as it stopped the metal doors and reopened them. She followed the shoes up and
saw the slacks, the trench coat, the briefcase, and then the face of the individual
invading her space. It was a handsome specimen of a male
Homo sapiens
. Her
eyes locked with his as the two humans shared a smile.
Janice watched as Trevor slid into the
elevator and pressed the number eight on the list. She stepped back as his
masculine cologne swirled around the elevator and drugged her. The doors closed.
The lift ascended toward the roof. Janice wondered who this man was and if he
were married. She stole a glimpse of his left hand, but his black leather glove
shielded any evidence. Even though a void of silence filled the elevator, a
list of questions filled her mind, a list that traversed from her brain down to
her vagina. Her aroused mind consumed her senses, and without even noticing the
sacks anymore, the right one fell from her hand. Organic apples and oranges rolled
around.
“Oh, how clumsy,” she said with
embarrassment.
“Here, let me help you,” Trevor offered
as he grabbed the rolling fruit.
Janice returned some to her bag.
Trevor handed her an orange. “It’s never
a good idea to shop alone, you know. An extra set of hands always comes in
handy.” Trevor smiled.
“You’re right.” The elevator dinged.
“Here’s my floor. Thank you, sir.”
“The name’s Trevor.”
“I’m Janice. It’s a pleasure.”
Janice tried to shake hands, but
realized her bags prevented it.
“It’s okay. Be careful with your fruit,”
Trevor warned.
Janice exited the elevator, leaving the
beautiful being behind. The stillness of the silent hallway surrounded her.
Identical doors lined each side as the hunter green zebra-striped carpet calmed
her kitten heels. The sound of the recycled paper bags brushing her coat filtered
through the corridor. Finally, she arrived at her resting place, room “717”
written in Arial font. Janice put the sacks on the carpet, and then fumbled in
her purse, which was on top of the bread.
“You forgot this.”
Janice jumped. She grabbed her chest. Then,
she saw the man from the elevator, the man named Trevor. A grin painted her
face as she saw a red apple surrounded by his gloved hand.
“Oh, sorry to have startled you,” Trevor
said.
“It’s okay. I don’t know why I’m so
jumpy tonight.”
“Let me help you with those.” Trevor
reached for one of her bags with his free hand, the briefcase in his other.
“Thank you, but it’s okay…really.” Janice
opened her door.
“It’s the neighborly thing to do. Where
would you like this?” Trevor asked.
“Oh, you’re too kind. I can get it.” Janice
reached for the light and walked inside. She was flustered by both the
groceries in her hand and the man in her home. Janice led the way on the
cream-colored carpet as the stylish condo enclosed them. Classic artwork mixed
with contemporary abstracts hung on the white walls.
“Over there is fine,” she instructed as
Trevor walked into the kitchen. She chuckled. “You know, I usually don’t invite
strangers into my condo like this.”
Janice watched him move. His slick
saunter, confident courage, and arresting appearance tickled her senses and played
with her like a cat playing with a mouse. There was something to be said about
the seemingly random sequence of events leading to her new guest, something
that the single woman felt happened for a reason.
“I’m not a stranger. You already know my
name,” Trevor joked as he helped to position her bag on the all-glass table.
Trevor’s Rolex caught her attention as an
art lover’s replica of
The Starry Night
in the living room caught his. Janice
gravitated toward the watch’s hands as he gravitated toward the painting’s
brushstrokes. He neared the work of art and analyzed its cool colors and smooth
swirls. He moved to the side as Janice flipped a switch showering the painting with
a tailored spotlight.
“This is beautiful. Where did you get
this?” Trevor asked.
Janice smiled and walked behind him as
his masculine scent surged around her—a scent that stopped her cold. She
studied him as he studied the painting. His gravitational pull sucked her in,
slaying the reservations she had about this man she had just met.
“Oh, I love art. I bought this from a
studio uptown. It’s a complete oil based replica.” Janice watched Trevor set
down his briefcase and move around the piece.
Janice remembered the advice her
grandmother had given her as a child, the advice she used whenever a new man floated
her way. “You can judge a lot from a man’s shoes. If they’re old and gray, stay
away, but if they’re new and shine, give him your time.”
The shoes of the man in front of her
were leather colored in the darkest of gray. They were the face of Mona Lisa, and
her eyes were the small accent of white that added a window into the soul of
the shoes. Her grandmother’s adage didn’t account for gray shoes that glimmered
in light, but whatever the interpretation, she knew that this man begged for
further inspection.
“I have some modern pieces over there,” Janice
said as she gestured toward the perpendicular wall. She led him to a wild black
& white abstract that hung next to a flat-screen television. Paint
splattered the canvas as the image seemed to have no order, yet it seemed to be
in perfect harmony.
“I like it. Lots of emotion going on,”
Trevor remarked.
“You know who painted that?”
“Pollock?”
“Ha! Yours truly. I love painting. It
lets me unwind from a hard day’s work.”
“I take it painting isn’t your full time
job,” Trevor observed as he took the painting in from a different light.
“No, I’m an attorney.”
“Oh, I see. You get people out of
traffic tickets,” Trevor joked.
“Not quite. I work organized crime
cases. Right now, my life is my work,” Janice revealed.
