Close Enough to Kiss or Where the Devil Sleeps
11:30 PM
Stepping out into a cold night, the heels of his 625-euro Ferragamo loafers silent on the slick, post-rain pavement, his heart slows to almost normal and his breath hangs in the air. The taller man opens the backseat door of the black 2011 Bentley Mulsanne and Jim slides in, pulling out his iPhone and scrolling down to contacts. He makes two calls, has three people killed, and stares out the window at the London skyscrapers flashing past as the car purrs downtown. He presses away the tiny drops of moisture at the corners of his eyes. That man. That. Man. No one had ever been so quick, so sharp. No one had ever followed so close behind. No one had ever dared to face him as boldly as he did. He doesn't know whether to laugh or scream; it felt like a tiny creature, like a mouse or perhaps a bird, trapped somewhere beneath his heart, fighting desperately to get loose. He chooses a smile as the door is opened and he steps out and passes through the revolving entrance.
12:04 AM
I blink and take a breath as the lamp beside the bed clicks on, bathing the spacious room in soft, silvery light. He is back, after 24 hours of what was clearly work. He is quiet and moves slowly, dreamily as he removes his overcoat and suit jacket and folds them neatly over the back of the armchair. This could mean anything, I've come to know. I watch his back for a bit while he pulls out his mobile and clicks around on it. I close my eyes, pretend to be asleep. He clearly doesn't want attention right now.
I don't hear him move until he sits on the edge of the bed close to me and kicks off his shoes and socks. I lay for a moment, then I feel him looking down at me. I open my eyes and I stretch with a small smile, relishing the slip of the silk sheets. "How did it go?" I ask. My voice is barely above a rasp from sleep, whispery like crinkled wax paper. "Well," he says with a ghost of a smile. He removes his cufflinks and sets them beside the lamp. "Very well." He stares at me with those deep brown eyes, a million miles away, almost wistful, yet focused like lasers. But the lasers drift off again, and I notice that his left hand, lying on my waist, is shaking slightly. One too many espresso shots? Anger? …fear? It doesn't matter. I twine my fingers through his and kiss them, one by one, letting my eyes and my lips linger on him. He leans down, presses his gentle mouth to mine, breathes in slowly. Three hours ago, I had showered, washing my hair with his shampoo. This always brings him out of whatever random state he's in: Jim likes it when I smell like him. I smile and start to unknot his spotted tie. "Not sure what his next move will be, exactly…" he muses, curling my dark hair around his hand. "But I know it'll be respectable. At least I'm hoping it will be…" he trails off. I can't tell if he's entirely serious about this guy, so I just furrow my brow understandingly, reply with "Mmhmm," and continue unbuttoning his shirt.
3:46 AM
The siren of a police car passes by 28 floors down and wakes me. I roll over, pulling the blankets up over my breasts, to find Jim sitting fully clothed in that same blue suit, in his favorite armchair. No, fully clothed is a lie; he is missing some key elements, being his tie, his posture, and that air of power he emits like smoke from a flame. His shoulders slouch forward slightly, his collar is undone, his usually tidy hair is unruly. He's run his fingers through it a few times, fingers that now grip a small glass of scotch, ice clinking as he swirls it absently. Shadows raccoon his eyes, his lips are parted slightly. The ethereal orange and blue glow of the London skyline silhouettes the contours of his face, and gives the appearance that he is sitting on the edge of the air. Even in the darkness, I see his eyes flick from point to point. He is thinking: it is trance-like, a meditative state. Few people are privileged, or safe, enough to see this Jim Moriarty, a Jim Moriarty at rest. I smile. He is cute when he thinks so hard.
I close my eyes, and when I open them again, he is gone, and the door to the bedroom is closing slowly.