Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

“Not in a coffee pot!” I said, as she thumbed her nose at me. I was so furious we walked straight home and all the newsstands we passed were closed. When we reached our house—that had been the garage at one time where we kept the Pierce-Arrow and which was now her house—she quickly undressed and lay across the bed, naked, leafing through an issue of Harper's Bazaar. Flo had a long bony, small-breasted figure, ideal for a clothes horse. Her hand- and toe-nails were painted an odd shade of deep red; little islands of color against the whiteness of her smooth skin. For a woman so concerned with clothes, she could shed them with amazing speed.

I undressed, then stopped abruptly. I took out my wallet, went through my pockets. Flo asked, “What's wrong?” I kept going through my pockets and she said, “Stop screwing up your face. Now what?”

“Goddamn it, I gave that guy a ten dollar bill and he only gave me eighty cents in change. The bastard!”

She rested the magazine on her flat stomach. “You sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. All I had was two tens. Had a feeling in the back of my mind all the time something was wrong, but I was so upset about you making a damn fool of yourself....”

“No, you don't— you were the dope—don't put it on me. Dress and go back there. He'll remember you.”

“He'll welcome me with open arms I I'd look like a sap. It's late, he must have plenty of tens in the till. Mark it down as nine bucks lost.”

“At least call him.”

“No,” I said, glad she was annoyed now.

“God, you're always yelling about money—call him!” Flo snapped.

“Call whom? You remember the name or store number? Let's forget it,” I said, putting on my pajamas.

“At least try calling. I'll phone,” she said, sitting up.

“Go to sleep. If you hadn't acted the fool this never...”

She exploded, her voice shrill as she yelled, “Oh, now it's my fault you're a dummy! Why I!...

I saw the bust-up coming. I sat on the bed beside her, said gently, “Let's forget it, Flo. It was my fault.”

“Forget it? It's okay for you to call me a fool, shoot your refined mouth off. But me, if I open.... My God, we argue over everything, even a lousy cup of coffee. Why if we had had a baby, he'd be neurotic with your constant nagging and...”

“Don't start that baby routine. Wasn't my fault we never had a child.”

“I suppose it was mine!!! she said, her sharp face contorted as the tears came.

I put my arms around her. “Look, darling, forget it. We're trying to make a go of...”

She broke out of my arms, jumped off the bed, screamed, “Some chance of making a go of anything, if a lousy five-cent cup of coffee, if nine bucks, can start this!”

“Let me tell you something,” I said, my voice rising. “If you'd only stop being the big career woman, if we had a real home, regular meals, we wouldn't be drinking coffee in some dive. If you could forget trying to be the center of attraction for a few minutes, I could keep my mind on my change. Or if you hadn't showed your legs to the counterman he would...”

“I like that! Oh I really love that!” Flo yelled, tears making her make-up a mess. “Because you're so smart you can't tell a ten from a one, you place the onus on me! If...”

“That's the wrong word, you mean blame.”

“You damn tightwad! If you weren't so cheap, we could have gone to...”

“Sure I'm tight with money,” I said coldly. “I have to be, you and your big ideas. Flo, the walking Vogue. If you'd only come off your cloud and realize....”

“You... you writer!”

I stood up but she moved away from me. I pulled her into my arms, held her while she struggled. “Flo, please, let's cut it, I'm sorry. Please Flo.... I've looked forward so much to having you again.”

She rested her head on my shoulder, began to bawl. “I didn't want to fight, Georgie, and yesterday was so very good. But we always battle over money—or something. Nine crummy dollars. My mother always said you...”

“Now wait, this is just between us. I don't care what your mother said or...”

Flo pushed me away. Her face was a wet mess. “Well, George Jackson, the high-society lad! My mother... and you, the smug son of the toilet-seat king!”

I couldn't resist saying, “Sure, a plumber who made an honest living. Which is something nobody in your four-flushing family ever did. There isn't a one of them worth a damn except your brother Eddie and...”

“That's right, stick up for that... that... bum!” Flo sobbed. “You encourage him in his crazy ideas.”

“For God's sake stop talking about the kid like that, wounded and...'

She fell on the bed, sobbing hysterically. I stood there, waiting for her to quiet down. She stuffed the top of my blue satin sheet in her mouth, making pitiful muffled sounds—and smearing lipstick on the sheet. I said, “I'm sorry, Flo. I swear I'm sorry.” I don't think she even heard me. I always ended up saying I was sorry.

I stood there for a few minutes, looking down at her, sorry the way things were going, and even more sorry in a vague sort of way I was mixed up in somebody else's troubles and complexes. But when Flo got up and began to dress, I felt sick. She said in a normal voice, “Georgie, what's wrong with us? We always battle over something, something petty. Nine bucks... guess our marriage is only worth nine bucks, and no bargain at that.”

“Look, Flo honey, it's only been two days. Give us more time...”

“No use, we both know it. This time we're really through.”

“We've been really through so many times,” I said.

She shook her head sadly. “This time I mean it.”

She went to the bathroom, washed her face, repainted it, and within a few minutes she was gone and the place was full of a haunting empty silence.

It was exactly twenty after two a.m. and we had been “together” since Friday night. I poured myself a drink, tuned in one of the all-night disc jockeys, and sat down. It was the first few minutes after she left me that I always missed Flo most.

We had been married almost a dozen years before, when she was 22 and I 35. We spent six years together, then the divorce and our frequent reunions. We loved each other, as the saying goes, but I suppose it was a case of neither of us being built for marriage. In our own way we worked things out fairly well. Our reunions stopped me from getting a little frantic about sex and companionship, and I guess it worked that way for Flo too. The first years hadn't been bad, but Flo is the efficient type that must go in for smart conversation all the time, dress like something out of the latest fashion magazines. Unfortunately, the magazines are usually six months ahead of the latest styles, so seeing Flo was a constant shock. This may sound like a hell of a lot of small reasons why our marriage didn't last, but it was all pretty important to me. Somehow, her extreme styles kept me at a distance. Of course there were other things; like her dancing in the coffee pot in those gold shoes and the new-look coat to end all new looks. It may have been I was too old and set for Flo.

We hit it off well in bed, but when we decided to have a kid (and never did) she even spoiled that by a sort of efficient mechanical approach, asking me, “Darling, will this be it? Oh dearest be sure and do everything right. Make this the one. Are you doing everything right? Darling, will we make a boy or a girl?”

Our days became a series of fights and we separated and she got a job as a bookkeeper for a smart dress house. It was the ideal job for Flo: it pleased her efficiency to handle a thousand and more details, and she was right in with the very newest styles. Her analyst thought it was the right job for her, and I suppose he really did her a world of good, although it was on his advice she got the divorce. In the settlement, she took the house, which only had one other tenant beside myself—the upstairs apartment that had once been the chauffeur's apartment (although we never had one; my father loved to drive the big car himself) was rented to a quiet old retired man named Francis F. Henderson. He'd been living there for years and paid eighty a month for his three rooms. I gave her the rent money, and took care of the house and paid the taxes for my rent.