The sound that woke him was puzzling and grating, but not completely unknown. A bell, ringing twice in quick succession, and at a high pitch. Again and again it rang, and made him feel as if his head was about to split in two.
His son, all of two, must be playing with some annoying new toy. He attempted to open his mouth to tell him to knock it off, but found it was sealed shut with a familiar dry, foul taste. Cottonmouth, the horrible, physical proof of another drunken night. There had been so many of late. Not that he had a drinking problem, oh no. Just a problem with boredom, with life, his home and family.
Still the bell rang, and he put his hand to his mouth and literally forced it open. "Turn that thing off..." he managed to croak, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.
"Sorry," he heard a woman's voice say, "I'll get it. Go back to sleep." Then he felt a kiss on his forehead, and he drifted back into what he thought was sleep.
What is it, he thought later, when you're not asleep and not awake either? Dozing? Daydreaming? Remembering. The night before slowly came into burry-eyed view.
It was Halloween and he had gone to a party alone. His wife, as usual, had some physical malady, and locked herself in her dressing room. He begged, he pleaded, for her to go with him. He'd done that quite often lately. Begging and pleading for a lot of things.
A shrill "NO!" was his final answer, punctuated by something thrown against her side of the door. As he exited their room he saw his son standing outside his own. The little boy looked just like him, but at times he could barely stand him. He always acted scared and never seemed to enjoy a single thing. "Go to bed," he said as he passed, and the boy's nanny guided him back into his room and closed the door quietly. That boy, he thought, we were doing fine until he came along. Ever since she won't let me touch her.
The party was being thrown by a friend at an old hangout, one that had seen better days. As he scanned the crowd he realized they had all seen better days. Barely into their thirties now, his contemporaries all wore the look of people going to seed. Baldness here, paunches there, and the general look of the privileged; too much time and money on their hands and nothing worthwhile to do with either.
He went straight to the bar and ordered, downing one shot after another of his favorite drink that burned the throat and blotted the memory. He held his fourth round, turned to face the revelers, and marveled how at one time, not too long ago, they seemed to have it all. That's when he saw two women at the door, arguing. Both were dressed as witches of old. The redhead was a sight, but the brunette was sight to behold. He approached them and said, "Can I be of assistance, ladies?"
One whispered to the other, and vice verse, then the redhead said, "Not sure we're in the right place. Do you know a guy called Herbert?"
"Not off-hand," he drawled, scanning the brunette's costume. Voluminous red skirts, tight black bodice, low neckline and a miniature witch's hat set atop cascading brown curls. Her eyes were what made him take in a sharp breath; hazel, and like a cat's. "Does it matter? You're here now, might as well enjoy yourself."
"I'm Daphne," the redhead stated, and held out her hand. He shook it, and the redhead continued, "this is my reluctant friend, Serena."
"Hello," she said, seeming shy. He took her hand and kissed it. She laughed and said, "I thought that only happens in the movies. Hand kissing, that is."
He didn't quite get what she said, and chalked it up to the crowd noise.
"I think I see him!" Daphne squealed, and moved through the crowd. He was glad she was gone.
"Every time we go somewhere she does that to me," Serena said. "Ditches me for some bloke."
Bloke, he thought. Bloke. He had a hard time remembering much right after that. They went to the bar, and they drank. She said something about art and a museum, and how it's "fun to see 'em." At the time he thought that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.
He kissed her, yes, he remembered that. Kissing her was amazing. Kissing against her apartment door as she struggled to unlock it. Kissing as they peeled off their clothes and threw them all over the room.
Oh no, he thought. Where am I?
He opened his eyes, and closed them again just as quickly. The room was bright with sunlight, and he could hear someone moving around hurriedly. He slowly squinted open his left lid and it was her, the brunette.
She heard him stir, and turned to him. "Good morning," she said, smiling. She was dressed in a smart tweed suit and high brown heels. Her long hair was swept into a ponytail, with short bangs that looked as if she trimmed them herself. In short, she was cute.
Cute, he thought. Cute? Not my type.
"I'm sorry I'm in such a rush, but I'm running late for work. There'll be coffee in a few..." and with that she scuttled out of the bedroom. He sat up in bed, only to see her return. "OH! And I found our clothes. No easy task, that. They were all over. Yours are there," she said pointing, "at the end of the bed." She stood there, sheepishly, and he swore she was blushing.
"Ok..." she trailed off and left again.
He sat there for a moment and studied the sparsely furnished room. It was small and it's contents tacky. Getting up and pulling on his clothes he had a terrible thought.
Finding her in the kitchen, straightening things, making toast, retrieving things from the refrigerator, all by hand, his worst fears were confirmed; she was a Muggle.
He sat at the table and watched her some more before she finally noticed him. She was nothing like his wife. He studied her body as it moved to and fro, bending over in front of him to put something in cupboard under the sink. She was taller, more curvaceous. Those curves, he remembered those from last night, too.
"Hi!" she said, and placed a cup of coffee in front of him. "You'd probably rather have tea, but I'm total rubbish at making it. This wakes you up better anyway."
She moved so quickly and acted so chipper that it made his face contort and twitch uncontrollably. Out of sickness, regret, he was not sure. He tried to wipe the look off his face and could not. "How is it you...feel so well this morning and I do not?" Again his voice sounded foreign.
"Remember, I told you my hangover remedy last night - two aspirin and a big glass of water before finally turning in. I see you left yours on the nightstand," she smiled at him again while setting down a plate of toast and a jar of marmalade.
"I doubt it would work on me," he said, studying the cup she had given him. It was emblazoned with a cartoon cat who stated, I DON'T DO MONDAYS.
"Why not, you're only human, right?" she giggled and sat down. She took a sip of her coffee and turned serious for a moment. "I have to tell you something. I don't normally do this sort of thing..."
He looked at her and countered, "Neither do I." I never pick up Muggle women, he thought. I'm more apt to-
"I mean bring a complete stranger home. I've never done that actually. But we hit it off so well, and had such a good talk, and you seemed so..."
"So what?" he asked, bracing for the answer. How much did she know?
"Sad, and lonely. You told me how you and your wife are having problems, how your boss died one year ago and you lost your job and you feel like you have no direction. I've never met a man who shared things with me like that..." she trailed off, seeming almost ashamed. "I know you're married and it was wrong for us to...you know...but I want you to know it wasn't just the fire whiskey."
"Fire whiskey?" he said, brows raised.
"You said that's what we were drinking, and boy did it have a kick. It makes you imagine all sorts of things! At one point, everyone at the party got out these wands, party favors I guess, I never got one, which is a shame...anyway, I imagined that everyone was making bottles and glasses fly about and crash into each other."
"Quite the imagination you have, indeed." He took a sip of the black coffee and found it to be not as horrible as he imagined. Any port in a storm, as his mouth was now like wet sandpaper.
They sat there in silence for a few moments, he staring into his coffee cup, and she shredding a piece of toast but not eating it. "That was Daphne's mother on the phone before."
He turned to her with surprise. "Phone?" What the devil was a phone?
"She didn't come home last night. I told her not to worry, that she'd met up with Herbert and he seemed ok. Thing is, that's a lie. I never met Herbert, and we were at the wrong party." She looked worried.
For some reason he was filled with dread. Daphne, the redhead, was in all likelihood not alright. The wrong wizard had probably figured out she was a Muggle and done away with her.
"I'm sure she'll be fine," he lied.
"I hope so, she's a great girl. She got us those costumes from work. She works at a theatre, and borrowed them from the prop department."
Again they sat in silence, the clock on the wall ticking away. "How did we get here?" he finally asked.
"Oh, this is funny. We took a cab! You tried to pay the cabby with these crazy looking coins...guess you got them on holiday somewhere. Well he took one look at those and told you to bugger off and I paid." She laughed and once again his face contorted. Disgust, anger? He tried hide it but could not.
"I was in a cab? I'll have to burn my clothes..." He buried his face in his hands and heard her laugh.
"Oh come on, it wasn't that bad. I used to live in New York, and trust me, I've been in worse looking and smelling ones than that!" She reached over and touched his shoulder. "You going to be alright?"
"Not sure." I might die of shame, he thought.
"I've got to get going. The museum is doing tours today and they'll need me for sure. You can stay as long as you like, just lock up when you go." He watched her pull on a cloth coat and retrieve a case and purse. She walked over to him and handed him a slip of paper.
"I want to see you again...if that's alright. Here's my number." She bent down and kissed his forehead again, and for the third time he felt his face go into that look. A grimace? Nausea?
He got up and followed her to the door. Why? He wanted away from her, right? "Here's your walking stick...right where you left it." She handed it to him, stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips before leaving. "See you later, Lucius."
"Goodbye, Serena." She shut the door and he stood there with the feel of her kiss still on his lips. He walked toward a mirror hanging on the right hand side of the door. That grimace, that look of disgust, that emotion contorting his face...was a smile.
He went to the bedroom and finished dressing, preparing to aparate home. Home, the thought of it, of facing his wife, made him have a sharp pain in his chest.
He saw something on the dresser, something he had to have. A picture of her, grinning broadly while holding a small white dog. Those eyes; hazel and like a cat's. He took it from the frame, and put it in his inside jacket pocket.
Again, he studied his appearance in the mirror hanging over her bureau. The smile was gone.