Companion peice to "Un Petit Hantise."

Just thought I'd mention that neither of these are related to "Mother Midnight" in any way.

And away we go...


She was infuriating and he hated her.

Not like the papers, which he'd learned to ignore. Not like his family- a word he used always in the loosest sense- who simply made him want to be elsewhere. Not like the endless parade of girlfriends, pert little status symbols who always ended up costing him more than they were worth.

He hated her because she'd taken to straightening her hair and he still dreamt of those old ringlets.

She was infuriating because she wasn't impressed with him or his money.

She was infuriating because she insisted on wearing pinks and oranges and yellows and every other pale garden-flower shade there was. She was infuriating because the one time he'd seen her in a little black dress, lips stained dark, he'd had to ask her to repeat her first question.

She was infuriating because she'd gotten married. He hated her because she'd gone and changed her name. She was infuriating because she always, always had on that little diamond ring.

She was infuriating because every time something confused her, and she got that look on her face, he wanted to kiss her and nothing more.

She was infuriating because when she was angry, or frustrated, and got that look on her face, all he wanted were a hundred variations of "more."

He hated her because she wore a perfume that other women wore, because he caught whiffs of her scent in Starbucks and at galas and dinners and even the grocery store.

She was infuriating because she'd almost laughed aloud when in the course of answering one of her questions he'd revealed that he actually did his own shopping.

He hated her because she only had occasion to speak to him when she was trying to convict him of murder. She was infuriating because he wanted to tell her far more about himself than would be wise. He hated her because where he was concerned she still couldn't see the forest for the fucking trees.

He hated her because he'd lost his temper in front of her, once, truly lost his temper, and said things that still tasted foul in his mouth. She was infuriating because the memory of her sitting back in that chair, breathing the smug words "you're so angry," six years stale, still made his cheeks burn. She was infuriating because she was able to make him that angry, that ashamed.

There were a lot of reasons she infuriated him.

But right now she was infuriating because he could hear her on her phone, five feet and two police officers down the ugly industrial hall, telling her husband she wouldn't be home for dinner; asking her husband not to be angry.

He'd never hated her more.


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