Today I'm meeting Bethany for lunch at Vanities, the new EvanKiley bistro in Tribeca, and though I worked out for nearly twohours this morning and even lifted weights in my oɽce beforenoon, I'm still extremely nervous. The cause is hard to locate butI've narrowed it down to one of two reasons. It's either that I'mafraid of rejection (though I can't understand why: she called me,she wants to see me, she wants to have lunch with me, she wantsto fuck me again) or, on the other hand, it could have somethingto do with this new Italian mousse I'm wearing, which, though itmakes my hair look fuller and smells good, feels very sticky anduncomfortable, and it's something I could easily blame mynervousness on. So we wouldn't run out of things to talk aboutover lunch, I tried to read a trendy new short-story collectioncalled Wok that I bought at Barnes & Noble last night and whoseyoung author was recently proɹled in the Fast Track section ofNew York magazine, but every story started oʃ with the line"When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie" and I had toput this slim volume back into my bookshelf and drink a J&B onthe rocks, followed by two Xanax, to recover from the eʃort. Tomake up for this, before I fell asleep I wrote Bethany a poem andit took a long time, which surprised me, since I used to write herpoems, long dark ones, quite often when we were both atHarvard, before we broke up. God, I'm thinking to myself as Iwalk into Vanities, only ɹfteen minutes late, I hope she hasn'tended up with Robert Hall, that dumb asshole.
I pass by a mirrorhung over the bar as I'm led to our table and check out myreɻection—the mousse looks good. The topic on The Patty WintersShow this morning was Has Patrick Swayze Become Cynical orNot?I have to stop moving as I near the table, following the maîtred' (this is all happening in slow motion). She isn't facing me and Ican only catch the back of her neck, her brown hair pinned upinto a bun, and when she turns to gaze out the window I see onlypart of her proɹle, brieɻy; she looks just like a model. Bethany'swearing a silk gazar blouse and a silk satin skirt with crinoline. APaloma Picasso hunter green suede and wrought-iron handbagsits in front of her on the table, next to a bottle of San Pellegrinowater. She checks her watch. The couple next to our table issmoking and after I lean in behind Bethany, surprising her,kissing her cheek, I coolly ask the maître d' to reseat us in thenonsmoking section. I'm suave but loud enough for the nicotineaddicts to hear me and hopefully feel a slight twinge ofembarrassment about their ɹlthy habit."Well?" I ask, standing there, arms crossed, tapping my footimpatiently."I'm afraid there is no nonsmoking section, sir," the maître d'informs me.I stop tapping my foot and slowly scan the restaurant, thebistro, wondering how my hair really looks, and suddenly I wish Ihad switched mousses because since I last saw my hair, secondsago, it feels diʃerent, as if its shape was somehow altered on thewalk from bar to table. A pang of nausea that I'm unable to stiɻewashes warmly over me, but since I'm really dreaming all this I'mable to ask, "So you say there's no nonsmoking section? Is thiscorrect?""Yes sir." The maître d', younger than myself, faggy, innocent,an actor no doubt, adds, "I'm sorry.""Well, this is ... very interesting. I can accept this." I reach intomy back pocket for my gazelleskin wallet and press a twenty intothe maître d's uncertain ɹst. He looks at the bill, confused, thenmurmurs "Thank you" and walks away as if in a daze."No. Thank you," I call out and take my seat across fromBethany, nodding courteously to the couple next to us, andthough I try to ignore her for as long as etiquette allows, I can't.Bethany looks absolutely stunning, just like a model. Everything'smurky.
I'm on edge. Feverish, romantic notions—"Didn't you smoke at Harvard?" is the ɹrst thing she says."Cigars," I say. "Only cigars.""Oh," she says."But I quit that," I lie, breathing in hard, squeezing my handstogether."That's good." She nods."Listen, did you have any trouble getting reservations?" I ask,and I am fucking shaking. I put my hands on the table like a fool,hoping that under her watchful gaze they will stop trembling."You don't need reservations here, Patrick," she sayssoothingly, reaching out a hand, covering one of mine with hers."Calm down. You look like a wild man.""I'm clam, I mean calm," I say, breathing in hard, trying tosmile, and then, involuntarily, unable to stop myself, ask, "How'smy hair?""Your hair is ɹne," she says. "Shhh. It's okay.""All right. I am all right." I try to smile again but I'm sure itlooks just like a grimace.After a short pause she comments, "That's a nice suit. HenryStuart?""No," I say, insulted, touching its lapel. "Garrick Anderson.""It's very nice," she says and then, genuinely concerned, "Areyou okay, Patrick? You just ... twitched.""Listen. I'm frazzled. I just got back from Washington. I tookthe Trump shuttle this morning," I tell her, unable to make eyecontact, all in a rush. "It was delightful. The service—reallyfabulous. I need a drink."She smiles, amused, studying me in a shrewd way. "Was it?"she asks, not totally, I sense, without smugness."Yes." I can't really look at her and it takes immense eʃort tounfold the napkin, lay it across my lap, reposition it correctly,busy myself with the wineglass, praying for a waiter, the ensuingsilence causing the loudest possible sound.
"So did you watch ThePatty Winters Show this morning?""No, I was out jogging," she says, leaning in. "It was aboutMichael J. Fox, right?""No," I correct her. "It was about Patrick Swayze.""Oh really?" she asks, then, "It's hard to keep track. You'resure?""Yes. Patrick Swayze. I'm positive.""How was it?""Well, it was very interesting," I tell her, breathing in air. "Itwas almost like a debate, about whether he's gotten cynical ornot.""Do you think he has?" she asks, still smiling."Well, no, I'm not sure," I start nervously. "It's an interestingquestion. It wasn't explored fully enough. I mean after DirtyDancing I wouldn't think so, but with Tiger Warsaw I don't know. Imight be crazy, but I thought I detected some bitterness. I'm notsure."She stares at me, her expression unchanged."Oh, I almost forgot," I say, reaching into my pocket. "I wroteyou a poem." I hand her the slip of paper. "Here." I feel sick andbroken, tortured, really on the brink."Oh Patrick." She smiles. "How sweet.""Well, you know," I say, looking down shyly.Bethany takes the slip of paper and unfolds it."Read it," I urge enthusiastically.She looks it over quizzically, puzzled, squinting, then she turnsthe page over to see if there's anything on the back. Something inher understands it's short and she looks back at the wordswritten, scrawled in red, on the front of the page."It's like haiku, you know?" I say. "Read it. Go on."She clears her throat and hesitantly begins reading, slowly,stopping often. "'The poor nigger on the wall. Look at him.'" Shepauses and squints again at the paper, then hesitantly resumes."'Look at the poor nigger. Look at the poor nigger ... on ... the ...wall.'" She stops again, faltering, looks at me, confused, thenback at the paper."Go on," I say, looking around for a waiter. "Finish it."She clears her throat and staring steadily at the paper tries toread the rest of it in a voice below a whisper. "'Fuck him ... Fuckthe nigger on the wall ...'" She falters again, then reads the lastsentence, sighing. "'Black man ... is ... de ... debil?'"The couple at the next table have slowly turned to gaze over atus. The man looks aghast, the woman has an equally horriɹedexpression on her face. I stare her down, glaring, until she looksback at her fucking salad."Well, Patrick," Bethany says, clearing her throat, trying tosmile, handing the paper back to me."Yes?" I ask. "Well?""I can see that"—she stops, thinking—"that your sense of ...social injustice is"—she clears her throat again and looks down—"still intact."I take the paper back from her and slip it in my pocket andsmile, still trying to keep a straight face, holding my body uprightso she won't suspect me of cringing. Our waiter comes over to thetable and I ask him what kinds of beer they serve."Heineken, Budweiser, Amstel Light," he recites."Yes?" I ask, staring at Bethany, gesturing for him to continue."That's, um, all, sir," he says."No Corona? No Kirin? No Grolsch? No Morretti?" I ask,confused, irate."I'm sorry, sir, but no," he says cautiously. "Only Heineken,Budweiser, Amstel Light.""That's crazy," I sigh. "I'll have a J&B on the rocks. No, anAbsolut martini. No, a J&B straight up.""And I'll have another San Pellegrino," Bethany says."I'll have the same thing," I quickly add, my leg jerking up thendown uncontrollably beneath the table."Okay. Would you like to hear the specials?" he asks."By all means," I spit out, then, calming down, smilereassuringly at Bethany."You're sure?" He laughs."Please," I say, unamused, studying the menu."For appetizers I have the sun-dried tomatoes and goldencaviar with poblano chilies and I also have a fresh endive soup—""Wait a minute, wait a minute," I say, holding up a hand,stopping him.
"Hold on a minute.""Yes sir?" the waiter asks, confused."You have? You mean the restaurant has," I correct him. "Youdon't have any sun-dried tomatoes. The restaurant does. Youdon't have the poblano chilies. The restaurant does. Just, youknow, clarify."The waiter, stunned, looks at Bethany, who handles thesituation deftly by asking him, "So how is the endive soupserved?""Er ... cold," the waiter says, not fully recovered from myoutburst, sensing he's dealing with someone very, very on edge.He stops again, uncertain."Go on," I urge. "Please go on.""It's served cold," he starts again. "And for entrées we havemonkɹsh with mango slices and red snapper sandwich on briochewith maple syrup and"—he checks his pad again—"cotton.""Mmmm, sounds delicious. Cotton, mmmm," I say, rubbing myhands together eagerly. "Bethany?""I'll have the ceviche with leeks and sorrel," Bethany says."And the endive with ... walnut dressing.""Sir?" the waiter asks tentatively."I'll have ..." I stop, scan the menu quickly. "I'll have the squidwith pine nuts and can I have a slice of goat cheese, of chèvre"—Iglance over at Bethany to see if she ɻinches at mymispronunciation—"with that and some ... oh, some salsa on theside."The waiter nods, leaves, we're left alone."Well." She smiles, then notices the table slightly shaking."What's ... wrong with your leg?"
"My leg? Oh." I look down at it, then back at her. "It's ... themusic. I like the music a lot. The music that's playing.""What is it?" she asks, tilting her head, trying to catch a refrainof the New Age Muzak coming from the speakers hooked to theceiling over the bar."It's ... I think it's Belinda Carlisle," I guess. "I'm not sure.""But ..." she starts, then stops. "Oh, forget it.""But what?""But I don't hear any singing." She smiles, looks downdemurely.I hold my leg still and pretend to listen. "But it's one of hersongs," I say, then lamely add, "I think it's called 'Heaven Is aPlace on Earth.' You know it.""Listen," she says, "have you gone to any concerts lately?""No," I say, wishing she hadn't brought this, of all topics, up. "Idon't like live music.""Live music?" she asks, intrigued, sipping San Pellegrino water."Yeah. You know. Like a band," I explain, sensing from herexpression that I'm saying totally the wrong things. "Oh, I forgot.I did see U2.""How were they?" she asks. "I liked the new CD a lot.""They were great, just totally great. Just totally ..." I pause,unsure of what to say. Bethany raises her eyebrows quizzically,wanting to know more. "Just totally ... Irish.""I've heard they're quite good live," she says, and her ownvoice has a light, musical lilt to it. "Who else do you like?""Oh you know," I say, completely stuck. "The, Kingsmen.'Louie, Louie.' That sort of stuʃ.""Gosh, Patrick," she says, looking at every part of my face."What?" I panic, immediately touching my hair. "Too muchmousse? You don't like the Kingsmen?""No." She laughs. "I just don't remember you being so tan backat school.""I had a tan then, didn't I?" I ask.
"I mean I wasn't Casper theGhost or anything, was I?" I put my elbow on the table and ɻexmy biceps, asking her to squeeze the muscle. After she touches it,reluctantly, I resume my questions. "Was I really not that tan atHarvard?" I ask mock-worriedly, but worriedly."No, no." She laughs. "You were deɹnitely the GeorgeHamilton of the class of eighty-four.""Thanks," I say, pleased.The waiter brings our drinks—two bottles of San Pellegrinowater. Scene Two."So you're at Mill ... on the water? Taʃeta? What is it?" I ask.Her body, her skin tone, seem ɹrm and rosy."Milbank Tweed," she says. "That's where I am.""Well," I say, squeezing a lime into my glass. "That's justwonderful. Law school really paid oʃ.""And you're at ... P & P?" she asks."Yes," I say.She nods, pauses, wants to say something, debates whether sheshould, then asks, all in a matter of seconds: "But doesn't yourfamily own—""I don't want to talk about this," I say, cutting her oʃ. "But yes,Bethany. Yes.""And you still work at P & P?" she asks. Each syllable is spacedso that it bursts, booming sonically, into my head."Yes," I say, looking furtively around the room."But—" She's confused. "Didn't your father—""Yes, of course," I say, interrupting. "Have you had the focacciaat Pooncakes?""Patrick.""Yes?""What's wrong?""I just don't want to talk about ..." I stop. "About work.""Why not?""Because I hate it," I say. "Now listen, have you triedPooncakes yet? I think Miller underrated it.""Patrick," she says slowly. "If you're so uptight about work,why don't you just quit? You don't have to work.""Because," I say, staring directly at her, "I ... want ... to ... ɹt... in."After a long pause, she smiles. "I see." There's another pause.This one I break. "Just look at it as, well, a new approach tobusiness," I say."How"—she stalls—"sensible." She stalls again. "How, um,practical."Lunch is alternately a burden, a puzzle that needs to be solved,an obstacle, and then it ɻoats eʃortlessly into the realm of reliefand I'm able to give a skillful performance—my overridingintelligence tunes in and lets me know that it can sense howmuch she wants me, but I hold back, uncommitted. She's alsoholding back, but ɻirting nonetheless. She has made a promise byasking me to lunch and I panic, once the squid is served, certainthat I will never recover unless it's fulɹlled. Other men notice heras they pass by our table. Sometimes I coolly bring my voicedown to a whisper. I'm hearing things—noise, mysterious sounds,inside my head; her mouth opens, closes, swallows liquid, smiles,takes me in like a magnet covered with lipstick, mentionssomething involving fax machines, twice. I ɹnally order a J&B onthe rocks, then a cognac. She has mint-coconut sorbet. I touch,hold her hand across the table, more than a friend. Sun pours intoVanities, the restaurant empties out, it nears three. She orders aglass of chardonnay, then another, then the check. She hasrelaxed but something happens. My heartbeat rises and falls,momentarily stabilizes. I listen carefully. Possibilities onceimagined plummet. She lowers her eyes and when she looks backat me I lower mine."So," she asks. "Are you seeing anyone?""My life is essentially uncomplicated," I say thoughtfully,caught oʃ guard."What does that mean?" she asks.I take a sip of cognac and smile secretly to myself, teasing her,dashing her hopes, her dreams of being reunited."Are you seeing anyone, Patrick?" she asks. "Come on, tell me."Thinking of Evelyn, I murmur to myself, "Yes.""Who?" I hear her ask."A very large bottle of Desyrel," I say in a faraway voice,suddenly very sad."What?" she asks, smiling, but then she realizes something andshakes her head. "I shouldn't be drinking.""No, I'm not really," I say, snapping out of it, then, not of myown accord, "I mean, does anyone really see anyone? Doesanyone really see anyone else? Did you ever see me? See? Whatdoes that mean? Ha! See? Ha! I just don't get it. Ha!" I laugh.After taking this in, she says, nodding, "That has a certain kindof tangled logic to it, I suppose."Another long pause and I fearfully ask the next question. "Well,are you seeing anyone?"She smiles, pleased with herself, and still looking down, admits,with incomparable clarity, "Well, yes, I have a boyfriend and—""Who?""What?" She looks up."Who is he? What's his name?""Robert Hall. Why?""With Salomon Brothers?""No, he's a chef.""With Salomon Brothers?""Patrick, he's a chef. And co-owner of a restaurant.""Which one?""Does it matter?""No, really, which one?" I ask, then under my breath, "I wantto cross it out of my Zagat guide.""It's called Dorsia," she says, then, "Patrick, are you okay?"Yes, my brain does explode and my stomach bursts openinwardly—a spastic, acidic, gastric reaction; stars and planets,whole galaxies made up entirely of little white chef hats, raceover the ɹlm of my vision. I choke out another question.
"Why Robert Hall?" I ask. "Why him?""Well, I don't know," she says, sounding a little tipsy. "I guessit has to do with being twenty-seven and—""Yeah? So am I. So is half of Manhattan. So what? That's noexcuse to marry Robert Hall.""Marry?" she asks, wide-eyed, defensive. "Did I say that?""Didn't you say marry?""No, I didn't, but who knows." She shrugs. "We might.""Ter-riɹc.""As I was saying, Patrick"—she glares at me, but in a playfulway that makes me sick—"I think you know that, well, time isrunning out. That biological clock just won't stop ticking," shesays, and I'm thinking: My god, it took only two glasses ofchardonnay to get her to admit this? Christ, what a lightweight."I want to have children.""With Robert Hall?" I ask, incredulous. "You might as well doit with Captain Lou Albano, for Christ sakes. I just don't get you,Bethany."She touches her napkin, looking down and then out onto thesidewalk, where waiters are setting up tables for dinner. I watchthem too. "Why do I sense hostility on your part, Patrick?" sheasks softly, then sips her wine."Maybe because I'm hostile," I spit out. "Maybe because yousense this.""Jesus, Patrick," she says, searching my face, genuinely upset."I thought you and Robert were friends.""What?" I ask. "I'm confused.""Weren't you and Robert friends?"I pause, doubtful. "Were we?""Yes, Patrick, you were.""Robert Hall, Robert Hall, Robert Hall," I mutter to myself,trying to remember. "Scholarship student? President of our seniorclass?" I think about it a second longer, then add, "Weak chin?""No, Patrick," she says. "The other Robert Hall.""I'm confusing him with the other Robert Hall?" I ask."Yes, Patrick," she says, exasperated.Inwardly cringing, I close my eyes and sigh. "Robert Hall. Notthe one whose parents own half of, like, Washington? Not the onewho was"—I gulp—"captain of the crew team? Six feet?""Yes," she says. "That Robert Hall.""But ..." I stop."Yes? But what?" She seems prepared to wait for an answer."But he was a fag," I blurt out."No, he was not, Patrick," she says, clearly oʃended."I'm positive he was a fag." I start nodding my head."Why are you so positive?" she asks, not amused."Because he used to let frat guys—not the ones in my house—like, you know, gang bang him at parties and tie him up andstuʃ. At least, you know, that's what I've heard," I say sincerely,and then, more humiliated than I have ever been in my entirelife, I confess, "Listen, Bethany, he oʃered me a ... you know, ablow-job once. In the, um, civics section of the library.""Oh my god," she gasps, disgusted. "Where's the check?""Didn't Robert Hall get kicked out for doing his thesis onBabar? Or something like Babar?" I ask. "Babar the elephant?The, oh Jesus, French elephant?""What are you talking about?""Listen to me," I say. "Didn't he go to business school atKellogg? At Northwestern, right?""He dropped out," she says without looking at me."Listen." I touch her hand.She ɻinches and pulls back.I try to smile. "Robert Hall's not a fag—""I can assure you of that," she says a tad too smugly. How cananyone get indignant over Robert Hall? Instead of saying "Ohyeah, you dumb sorry bitch" I say soothingly, "I'm sure you can,"then, "Tell me about him. I want to know how things stand withthe two of you," and then, smiling, furious, full of rage, Iapologize. "I'm sorry."It takes some time but she ɹnally relents and smiles back at meand I ask her, once again, "Tell me more," and then, under mybreath, smiling a rictus at her, "I'd like to slice open yourbeaver." The chardonnay has mellowed her, so she softens andtalks freely.I think about other things while she describes her recent past:air, water, sky, time, a moment, a point somewhere when Iwanted to show her everything beautiful in the world. I have nopatience for revelations, for new beginnings, for events that takeplace beyond the realm of my immediate vision. A young girl, afreshman, I met in a bar in Cambridge my junior year at Harvardtold me early one fall that "Life is full of endless possibilities." Itried valiantly not to choke on the beer nuts I was chewing whileshe gushed this kidney stone of wisdom, and I calmly washedthem down with the rest of a Heineken, smiled and concentratedon the dart game that was going on in the corner. Needless tosay, she did not live to see her sophomore year. That winter, herbody was found ɻoating in the Charles River, decapitated, herhead hung from a tree on the bank, her hair knotted around alow-hanging branch, three miles away. My rages at Harvard wereless violent than the ones now and it's useless to hope that mydisgust will vanish—there is just no way."Oh, Patrick," she's saying. "You're still the same. I don't knowif that's good or bad.""Say it's good.""Why? Is it?" she asks, frowning. "Was it? Then?""You only knew one facet of my personality," I say. "Student.""Lover?" she asks, her voice reminding me of someone human.My eyes fall on her coldly, untouched. Out on the street, musicthat sounds like salsa blares. The waiter ɹnally brings the check."I'll pay for it," I sigh."No," she says, opening her handbag. "I invited you.""But I have a platinum American Express card," I tell her."But so do I," she says, smiling.I pause, then watch her place the card on the tray the checkcame on. Violent convulsions seem close at hand if I do not getup. "The women's movement. Wow." I smile, unimpressed.Outside, she waits on the sidewalk while I'm in the men's roomthrowing up my lunch, spitting out the squid, undigested and lesspurple than it was on my plate. When I come out of Vanities ontothe street, putting on my Wayfarers, chewing a Cert, I murmursomething to myself, and then I kiss her on the cheek and makeup something else. "Sorry it took so long. Had to call my lawyer.""Oh?" She acts concerned—the dumb bitch."Just a friend of mine." I shrug. "Bobby Chambers. He's inprison. Some friends of his, well, mainly me, are trying toremount his defense," I say with another shrug, then, changingthe subject, "Listen.""Yes?" she asks, smiling."It's late. I don't want to go back to the oɽce," I say, checkingmy Rolex. The sun, setting, glints oʃ it, momentarily blindingher. "Why don't you come up to my place?""What?" She laughs."Why don't you come up to my place?" I suggest again."Patrick." She laughs suggestively. "Are you serious?""I have a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé, chilled, huh?" I say, archingmy eyebrows."Listen, that line might've worked at Harvard but"—she laughs,then continues—"um, we're older now and ..." She stops."And ... what?" I ask."I shouldn't have had that wine at lunch," she says again.We start walking. It's a hundred degrees outside, impossible tobreathe. It's not day, it's not night. The sky seems yellow. I handa beggar on the corner of Duane and Greenwich a dollar just toimpress her."Listen, come over," I say again, almost whining. "Come onover.""I can't," she says. "The air-conditioning in my oɽce is brokenbut I can't. I'd like to but I can't.""Aw come on," I say, grabbing her shoulders, giving them agood-natured squeeze."Patrick, I have to be back at the oɽce," she groans, protestingweakly."But you'll be sweltering in there," I point out."I have no choice.""Come on." Then, trying to entice her, "I have a 1940s DurginGorham four-piece sterling silver tea and coʃee set I'd like toshow you.""I can't." She laughs, putting on her sunglasses."Bethany," I say, warning her."Listen," she says, relenting. "I'll buy you a Dove Bar. Have aDove Bar instead.""I'm appalled. Do you know how many grams of fat, of sodium,are in the chocolate covering alone?" I gasp, mock horriɹed."Come on," she says. "You don't need to worry about that.""No, you come on," I say, walking in front of her for a littlewhile so she won't sense any aggressiveness on my part. "Listen,come by for a drink and then we'll walk over to Dorsia and I'llmeet Robert, okay?" I turn around, still walking, but backwardnow. "Please?""Patrick," she says. "You're begging.""I really want to show you that Durgin Gorham tea set." Ipause. "Please?" I pause again. "It cost me three and a halfthousand dollars."She stops walking because I stop, looks down, and when shelooks back up her brow, both cheeks, are damp with a layer ofperspiration, a ɹne sheen. She's hot. She sighs, smiling to herself.She looks at her watch."Well?" I ask."If I did ...," she starts."Ye-e-es?" I ask, stretching the word out."If I did, I have to make a phone call.""No, negative," I say, waving down a cab. "Call from myplace.""Patrick," she protests. "There's a phone right over there.""Let's go now," I say. "There's a taxi."In the cab heading toward the Upper West Side, she says, "Ishouldn't have had that wine.""Are you drunk?""No," she says, fanning herself with a playbill from LesMisérables someone left in the backseat of the cab, which isn't airconditioned and even with both windows open she keeps fanningherself. "Just slightly ... tipsy."We both laugh for no reason and she leans into me, thenrealizes something and pulls back. "You have a doorman, right?"she asks suspiciously."Yes." I smile, turned on by her unawareness of just how closeto peril she really is.Inside my apartment. She moves into the living room area,nodding her head approvingly, murmuring, "Very nice, Mr.Bateman, very nice." Meanwhile I'm locking the door, makingsure it's bolted shut, then I move over to the bar and pour someJ&B into a glass while she runs her hand over the Wurlitzerjukebox, inspecting it. I've started growling to myself and myhands are shaking so badly I decide to forgo any ice and then I'min the living room, standing behind her while she looks up at theDavid Onica that's hung above the ɹreplace. She cocks her head,studying it, then she starts giggling and looks at me, puzzled,then back at the Onica, still laughing. I don't ask what's wrong—Icould care less. Downing the drink in a single gulp, I move overto the Anaholian white-oak armoire where I keep a brand-newnail gun I bought last week at a hardware store near my oɽce inWall Street. After I've slipped on a pair of black leather gloves, Imake sure the nail gun is loaded."Patrick?" Bethany asks, still giggling."Yes?" I say, then, "Darling?""Who hung the Onica?" she asks."You like it?" I ask."It's ɹne, but ..." She stops, then says, "I'm pretty sure it's hungupside down.""What?""Who hung the Onica?""I did," I say, my back still to her."You've hung the Onica upside down." She laughs."Hmmm?" I'm standing at the armoire, squeezing the nail gun,getting used to its weight in my gloved ɹst."I can't believe it's upside down," she says. "How long has itbeen this way?""A millennium," I whisper, turning around, nearing her."What?" she asks, still studying the Onica."I said, what in the fuck are you doing with Robert Hall?" Iwhisper."What did you say?" As if in slow motion, like in a movie, sheturns around.I wait until she's seen the nail gun and the gloved hands toscream, "What the fuck are you doing with Robert Hall?"Perhaps on instinct, perhaps from memory, she makes a futiledash for the front door, crying out. Though the chardonnay hasdulled her reɻexes, the Scotch I've drunk has sharpened mine,and eʃortlessly I'm leaping in front of her, blocking her escape,knocking her unconscious with four blows to the head from thenail gun. I drag her back into the living room, laying her acrossthe ɻoor over a white Voilacutro cotton sheet, and then I stretchher arms out, placing her hands ɻat on thick wooden boards,palms up, and nail three ɹngers on each hand, at random, to thewood by their tips. This causes her to regain consciousness andshe starts screaming. After I've sprayed Mace into her eyes,mouth, into her nostrils, I place a camel-hair coat from RalphLauren over her head, which drowns out the screams, sort of. Ikeep shooting nails into her hands until they're both covered—nails bunched together, twisted over each other in places, makingit impossible for her to try and sit up. I have to remove her shoes,which slightly disappoints me, but she's kicking at the ɻoorviolently, leaving black scuʃ marks on the stained white oak.During this period I keep shouting "You bitch" at her and thenmy voice drops to a raspy whisper and into her ear I drool theline "You fucking cunt."Finally, in agony, after I've taken the coat oʃ her face, shestarts pleading, or at least tries to, the adrenaline momentarilyoverpowering the pain. "Patrick oh god stop it please oh god stophurting me ..." But, typically, the pain returns—it's too intensenot to—and she passes out again and vomits, while unconscious,and I have to hold her head up so she doesn't choke on it andthen I Mace her again. The ɹngers I haven't nailed I try to biteoʃ, almost succeeding on her left thumb which I manage to chewall the ɻesh oʃ of, leaving the bone exposed, and then I Maceher, needlessly, once more. I place the camel-hair coat back overher head in case she wakes up screaming, then set up the Sonypalm-sized Handycam so I can ɹlm all of what follows. Once it'splaced on its stand and running on automatic, with a pair ofscissors I start to cut oʃ her dress and when I get up to her chest Ioccasionally stab at her breasts, accidentally (not really) slicingoʃ one of her nipples through the bra. She starts screaming againonce I've ripped her dress oʃ, leaving Bethany in only her bra, itsright cup darkened with blood, and her panties, which are soakedwith urine, saving them for later.I lean in above her and shout, over her screams, "Try toscream, scream, keep screaming...." I've opened all the windowsand the door to my terrace and when I stand over her, the mouthopens and not even screams come out anymore, just horrible,guttural, animal-like noises, sometimes interrupted by retchingsounds. "Scream, honey," I urge, "keep screaming." I lean down,even closer, brushing her hair back. "No one cares. No one willhelp you...." She tries to cry out again but she's losingconsciousness and she's capable of only a weak moan. I takeadvantage of her helpless state and, removing my gloves, forceher mouth open and with the scissors cut out her tongue, which Ipull easily from her mouth and hold in the palm of my hand,warm and still bleeding, seeming so much smaller than in hermouth, and I throw it against the wall, where it sticks for amoment, leaving a stain, before falling to the ɻoor with a tinywet slap. Blood gushes out of her mouth and I have to hold herhead up so she won't choke. Then I fuck her in the mouth, andafter I've ejaculated and pulled out, I Mace her some more.Later, when she brieɻy regains consciousness, I put on aporkpie hat I was given by one of my girlfriends freshman year atHarvard."Remember this?" I shout, towering over her. "And look atthis!" I scream triumphantly, holding up a cigar. "I still smokecigars. Ha. See? A cigar." I light it with steady, bloodstainedɹngers, and her face, pale to the point of blueness, keepscontracting, twitching with pain, her eyes, dull with horror, close,then open halfway, her life reduced to nightmare."And another thing," I yell, pacing. "It's not Garrick Andersoneither. The suit is by Armani! Giorgio Armani." I pause spitefullyand, leaning into her, sneer, "And you thought it was HenryStuart. Jesus." I slap her hard across the face and hiss the words"Dumb bitch," spraying her face with spit, but it's covered withso much Mace that she probably can't even feel it, so I Mace heragain and then I try to fuck her in the mouth once more but Ican't come so I stop.
AFTERWORD
This was by far the most violent Chapter I have written in any of my novel it even beats the Night of the living dead.... I hope no one is upset with amount of iron that's so I am trying to really get into the psychy of a man and if you know how psychopaths act you kind understand it if you read anything related to psychology... Anyway we reach the midpoint of this series.... Well sorry not my point midpoint of volume 1 as I planned three volume this is approx estimated to have a 60 to 64 chapters.... That will be my longest individual volume which is a funny ting because my other novels despite having written 5 I think single volume means this is bigger also do check out my other novel... A Tale of tales series I that was the one that had first written way back in 2022.... Chodu check it out it was my early work this businessman is something that I am making now but don't worry I have a plan in my mind at least for volume 1.... On how the story will go where it is going to end and which party are..... So ya thanks to my friends / editor SDK for helping me out with my stories and him investing has time with me I am really thankful for my it...if not for him I my might have never published the stuff so thank you..... And thank you to the readers has been who are enjoying my work...
Thankyou
BHARATH_SHYAM