I was Hoping to Get to Know You

                              I Was Hoping to Get to Know You

I entered the apartment unlawfully knowing she'd be gone for several hours.  I wheeled myself into paradise to suffocate in the glory that was Suzanne.

The door quietly latched and I was secure from prying eyes.  I inhaled her.  I had to be more careful this time.  During my last visit I had spilled the towering stacks of paperback novels that lined the wall next to the sofa.  The book covers had revealed brutish men clutching beautiful women with windswept hair.  A statement of lust I could only hope to share with Suzanne some day.

I sat at the threshold of the living-room not daring to go any further for fear of leaving tracks in the freshly vacuumed carpet.  It had not changed from the last time.  The same botanical prints, pansies, I think, spent endless days propped on a mantel over the striped sofa.

I had written my ex-army bud that Suzanne and I now lived under the same roof.  He didn't know she actually lived down the hall from me and that I was her landlord.  He'd written back that I was a very lucky guy to meet such a nice girl who didn't care about my bum legs.

I wheeled myself across the wood floor toward the bedroom.  I wanted to know everything about her, but before I reached the shallow cocoon of light that seeped through a slit in the draperies, my beeper went off on my mobile phone.  The page was from fat Mrs. Dillon.  Probably toilet overflows again.  Well, she'd just have to wait a spell. 

The bed was draped in white chenille, like a coffin covered with snow.  A dozen square pillows, mad with pink roses, lay on the bed and paid homage to the surreal scene.  The cloying scent of dried roses came from a dish enameled with angelic cherubs on the bureau.  I pulled an antique drawer open and smiled.  Sensible white cotton underwear folded in neat rows.  Unfolding the top one, a tiny satin packet sailed to the floor.  I retrieved it and smelled something powdery.  I put the sachet and underwear into the pocket of my old fatigues.  Mostly, because I didn't know how to refold it.  I opened the other three drawers, but left everything untouched.  I didn't want to risk another mistake.

My pager went off again as I wheeled over to the nightstand.  Mrs. Dillon again.  Probably drowning by now.  Just one more look and I'll be out of here.  The drawer glided open with ease.

"Wow."  Black steel.  I freed it from the leather holster to examine it.  The chamber was empty.  I turned it over and over.  "Why does she have this?"  A box hugged the corner of the drawer.  Thirty-eight caliber.

The door to the apartment creaked open and then slammed shut.  Footsteps clicked across linoleum.  My hands began to tremble as I hastily loaded the gun.

I wheeled out of the bedroom alert and prepared to startle the intruder.  Defend myself, if necessary.

Humming came from the kitchenette and rounded the wall about the same time I got to the living-room.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Sanders?"

For a moment I considered telling her the truth, but maybe it was the tone in her voice that went straight to my heart.  Any hope was replaced with dread.  What could I say to her?  I didn't want her pity, or worse, ridicule.  So I gave her my silence.  She asked again in a more demanding voice.  Her bitterness spat at me.

Embarrassing tears escaped down my face, my dignity gone.  I thought about licking the cold black steel.