A profound scent of new mahogany clutched easily to the apartment, bathed in a stale tenebrosity.
Sal Cosway was slumped and half swallowed by the recliner as he fell into it and ignited a premium cigarette. An empty fog occupied the atmosphere and danced lustily ahead of his torpid brown eyes.
Keys rhythmically penetrated the lock. Marion Wendell lunged boldly into his view and ruptured his previous contentment.
‘Hey baby!’ Her frizzy words attempted to caress him. ‘Baby?’ She repeated following his absence of reply.
He mumbled an affirmative as she tore a cigarette from his pack. He winced.
Loudly sitting in the chair in front of him, she said: ‘I’ve been talking to Jenny about wedding cakes and she hasn’t a clue what I’m on about. She’s crazy sometimes.’ She laughed, though it was vacant.
She continued: wedding this, wedding that; bullshit he didn’t want to hear. He wondered when he should break the news.
‘Hey! Wake up Mr Cosway.’ He knew just as well as Tyler did about her ‘financial tendencies’.
‘I’m awake. Whaddaya want?’
‘You are my fiancé. You should be listening, grumpy pants’.
‘What do you mean was, silly?’
‘I mean what I mean. Past tense.’
‘But we’re getting married!’
His soul almost imploded with opulent laughter at her ignorance.
Silence so omni-consumptuous that even the sizzle of their cigarettes was a focal sound.
‘All we wanted was you to twist the knife, Marion. I never loved you.’
Tears orbited her perfect frame of a skull, tears desperate for money and ‘true’ love.
At such a revelation, cogs of deep fury revolved within her and she whipped the pampered pistol from her handbag and took aim at Sal’s forehead.
‘By murdering me, you will achieve nothing.’ He remained effervescently calm as he savoured every bite of her fall, just as she had savoured Tyler’s.
‘No one chooses me for me! No one.’ Archaic childhood memories smothered her.
He calmly punched the pistol from her manicured hands. He scraped over her and forced her into a corner, buried in mahogany shelves and unread books.
‘DON’T YOU THREATEN ME! ADDICT!’ His spidery olive hands coiled around her porcelain neck.
Porcelain slowly fades to pink.
‘Please, no.’ Her voice merely a scratch on a submarine.
His infamous grin, painted wildly across his face; veins bulging at his forehead.
Eyes rolling back, the arcane left her smeared mouth.
He dropped her body with a distorted thump and resumed his nicotined slump.
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