Edward Lee - The Chosen

“Oh, that’s impossible. How could Paul have known I’d see the blonde on the street? He didn’t know I was going downtown after I left.”

“Vera, you’re being so naive I can’t believe it. Paul and the hooker probably followed you, then he dropped her off at a corner he knew you’d have to pass to leave town. He knew you’d see her, he knew you’d remember her, and he knew you’d stop and ask her about what happened that night. Then she took it from there. You’re letting these people make a fool of you. Christ, you were supposed to tell Paul off to get him out of your system, and now look what’s happened. You’re worse off than before you went.” Donna, next, began to change lace bras in the mirror, appraising each one. What she wore down below were scarlet panties of the edible variety. “Look, I know how things can be sometimes. When you’re with someone for two years, it’s hard to let go. But you’re believing what you want to believe, Vera. That’s not going to do you any good at all. Paul cheated on you with a couple of dope-addict whores.”

Vera meandered forward, as if to make an enfeebled plea. “But he wasn’t really himself,” she attempted without much conviction. “The blonde verified it—they coerced him. They put—”

Donna sighed heavily. “The big bad prostitutes put evil drugs in poor little innocent Paulie’s beer, and the drugs just made him so confused that he couldn’t be responsible for his actions.” Donna tapped her foot, a hand on her hip. “If you believe a load of crap like that, you’re the most gullible person to ever live.”

Vera sat back down, eyes locked to the floor. “Well, I guess it is a little far-fetched.”

“A little far-fetched? Don’t make me laugh. It’s big-time primo garbage, Vera. Paul’s so full of shit he probably uses a toilet brush to clean his ears.”

Donna refaced the dressing mirror to effect some last-minute adjustments to her attire. The scarlet edible panties made for a unique clash with the black four-inch high heels and black garters, while the fishnet stockings matched perfectly with the fishnet brassiere she finally decided on. Then she pinned her hair tightly behind her head.

“Getting ready for Dan B., huh?” Vera presumed.

“Yes, and don’t change the subject. You need to get over him, Vera, and you need to do it soon. You’re letting him and his bullshit get under your skin; you’re playing right into his hands. You have to forget about him, you have to write him off. I mean, look at how he treated you. This guy’s got you so confused you’re actually thinking about forgiving him, aren’t you?”

Vera felt cornered. Was it true? “Well—”

“Well forget it,” Donna stated, misting herself with Red Door. “Is that the kind of guy you want? Someone you can never trust?”

“No,” Vera admitted.

“You deserve a lot better.”

Vera thought about that. Do I? she asked herself in remorse. Maybe I don’t deserve anything.

“All good things take time,” Donna tritely offered. “That’s cold comfort but it’s the truth. Give yourself a chance, girl; don’t mope over that dickbrain Paul. Be patient and eventually you’ll find the kind of man you really want.”

Everything Donna said, of course, made perfect sense. So what’s wrong? she wondered. Why am I so bent out of shape?

It was probably a combination of things: moving to a new place, working for a new boss, new responsibilities. Not to mention that I’m almost thirty and I haven’t had sex in months. Yes, that might have something to do with her shuffled conceptions. But had she really been thinking about giving Paul another chance? Was she that foolish to consider his story? It does sound ridiculous now, she agreed. Donna’s right. I was believing what I wanted to believe.

“And since we’re sort of on the topic of good things that take time, Dan B.’ll be off shift in a few minutes,” Donna politely urged the point. “So would you like, you know—”

“I’m leaving,” Vera said. “Have fun, but remember, don’t wear your husband out. We have twenty-five reservations tomorrow night.”

Donna grinned. “Well, in that case, I guess I can take it easy on him.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Good night. Oh, and Vera, anytime you want to talk, I’m here.”

“Thanks, Donna.”

It was past midnight. Vera headed toward her suite, so weary her head felt light. The Inn seemed draped in silence and cozy, muffled warmth. It isolated her…

In her room, she poured herself a drink, took a long bath, and hoped that relaxing would sort out her feelings. Then, in bed, she opened one of the romance novels, but just couldn’t get into it. I’m bored shitless, she glumly realized. She turned out the light. I’m over the hill, unfulfilled, insecure, confused. I’ve got noth ing going on in my life, and I’m so bored I could scream!

It was an interesting outburst of self-disclosure. She curled up beneath the plush down comforter. She longed for sleep but she knew it wasn’t just her fatigue. When she was asleep, she dreamed, and lately it was beginning to seem that dreams were her only real excitement. When she dreamed, there were no confusions, no stress, no Paul, no contemplations. There was only her fantasy, and the heady bliss that always followed.

Minutes later she was asleep.

Dreaming.

««—»»

Dreaming, Donna assured herself.

She must be. She didn’t know where she was, but she knew what she was doing.

She was drinking.

Yes, it’s just a dream. There was no way she’d ever go back to the bottle; those days would always be the ugliest bruise on her spirit. The Scotch tasted exquisite. Just like the old days, she thought in the dream, because it was a dream.

She knew it was.

It had to be.

Yes. Just a dream…

Bladelike heat fluttered in her belly; the loveliest sensations rose gently to her head. She took another sip, carrying the bottle along with her. But where am I go ing? The dreams were always like this, as cryptic as they were dark. Equally, she never cared. She felt safe in the dreams. So she’d merely walk on, sipping the aromatic liquor, and let the dream take her away…

She felt grateful for the dream; Dan B. hadn’t proved of any use at all tonight. “Aw, honey, I’m really not in the mood right now, you know?” he mumbled in bed. “We got slammed tonight, wound up doing twenty dinners after nine.” Then he’d rolled over and gone to sleep.

This hurt. Donna went to serious efforts to turn him on, to make him happy. But this seemed to be happening almost every night now: she’d dress up for him in the sexy garments, and he scarcely even noticed. So, frustrated, annoyed, she’d go to sleep herself.

And dream.

She never remembered at first. Soon, though, as the dream-Scotch rushed to her head, she’d think: Yes, here it is. I remember this place, from all the other dreams .

Suddenly she knew where the dream was taking her.

Her buzz deepened; the dream became a cloud which muddled her perceptions but one: arousal. She was hot. Something was summoning her excitement, beseeching her with vaguely remembered promises of pleasure. The corridor wound down.

A figure was approaching just ahead of her. Another figure came up from behind and urged her away. Donna never remembered entering a room. Was she at The Inn? Had they taken her into one of the upper suites? More candlelight flickered as the two figures lowered her onto what seemed a bed of fragrant pillows. Gentle heat stirred in the air, like the heat in her belly, her head, and her sex…