A Moment of Change
The weeks passed quickly. We saw each other whenever we could, and I was glad to be able to take her to the nicer parts of New York, the places I knew she couldn't afford on her meager teaching stipend. Sometimes we had wonderful dinners out: baby spinach leaves with feta and honey mustard, steak medium rare, and a bottle of red wine. I was ready to buy the world for her, and all she asked of me was time, but that in abundance.
But we also did simple things, like tonight when we went to the movies. Cara insisted on a thriller, one of those semi-authentic police dramas about deranged serial killers. I hate that sort of thing - too much like real life - but she had been fascinated by the commercials and I couldn't say no to her on opening night.
Now, as she sat beside me, transfixed, I let me mind wander, thinking about why exactly I hated these things. I can still remember the very first case that really shook me up, some guy back in Baltimore who killed a hooker. She wasn't raped, just choked until she was barely conscious and then mutilated alive. We never found the missing parts, and that was the start of my nightmares. I lost my second wife because of them, and hadn't spent the night with Cara since that first, when I'd been, thankfully, too tired to dream.
Cara took my hand. I hadn't been paying attention to the film, but evidently it was over. "John," she said, curiosity and concern in her eyes. "Where were you just now?"
"Nowhere," I said, quickly, trying to sound innocuous and covering my lie with a smile.
I walked her home that night, just the two of us. For the first time in years I felt at ease in public, blending in with all the other people in the crisp November evening. Of course, by "at ease" I mean that I didn't feel like a cop. She wanted to walk slowly, instead of the purposeful stride I'm accustomed to: her hand in mine was my purpose. I almost felt guilty for my weapon and the badge at my hip. When we came to her building, she just stood there, looking up at me, hope in her eyes. "Do you want to come up?"
I couldn't help but break her gaze. Of course I did! but the case I'd been working on that week was heavy on my mind and I couldn't bear to let my sleepless nights keep her from her work. "Do you have time on Friday for lunch?" I asked. She nodded and gave me a regretful kiss goodnight.
Friday at noon, I met her on the steps of the precinct as we'd agreed. Unfortunately, I was following Fin out to the car on an urgent call, Olivia and Elliott somewhere behind us, when I caught a glimpse of Cara's hair. In the flurry of phone calls and orders, I had nearly forgotten about our lunch date.
"John!" she called.
I excused myself from Fin. She must have intuited the position I was in, and how many of my coworkers were watching, because no sooner did she touch my arm than she pulled back. "Can we postpone, honey?" When did I start calling her that? "We just got a call ." I wanted to explain.
"John!" called another female voice: Olivia. She came speeding down the steps and stopped right next to me, a little close to my shoulder. "You coming?" she demanded. "I don't know if you've heard, but Cragen is breathing down our necks about this case."
Cara cocked an eyebrow but didn't say a word. Olivia stopped mid-sentence then as she realized that we'd been talking. I paused to let Cara's presence sink in, maybe to let Olivia realize just who she was, before introducing them, choosing their titles as carefully as possible. "Cara, this is Detective Benson. Cara Jones."
"Olivia," she corrected, extended a hand for Cara's. They shook hands briefly.
"Nice to meet you," Cara said. I wondered what was going on in her head.
"Can I get a raincheck on lunch?" I asked her.
"Of course. I'll give you a call." I smiled, wanting to apologize for leaving. With a sideways glance at Olivia, she leaned in and kissed me quickly. She nodded at Olivia and disappeared into the crowd. I felt like hell but went along with Olivia, wondering how many other detectives had just witnessed me, John Munch of all people, in a situation like that.
There was a special about Scottish nationalism on tv that night: I was just glad for something other than World War II. I got myself a glass of scotch to go with the theme and put my glasses on the table next to my chair. Aside from the noise from the street and the light pollution blocking out the stars, it was a nice quiet night, just my own thoughts and the television for background.
A thousand different questions battered my mind when I shut my eyes: some were about work (had I investigated every lead, talked to anyone who might know something?), others about the present, and others still the past. Too many things to fret over, too many worries for one man to deal with after almost sixty years of concern and loneliness. For whatever reason, my mind came to my ex-wives who had gotten the hell out at the first sign of trouble. On one hand, I couldn't blame them for not wanting to be married to a homicide detective with nightmares about walking corpses.
Then again, these were my so-called life-partners.
Was that a knock on the door? Who in the hell would be knocking at my door at nine at night? I picked up my piece from the coffee table and opened the door. "Cara," I said, surprised. I had no idea she even remembered how to get to my apartment, but clearly she did. Why didn't I have to buzz her in?
"Hey," she said, looking cold and a little nervous. I had forgotten to invite her in.
I opened the door and stepped aside, offering to take her coat, and then put my weapon away. I knew she didn't want to have to see that little reminder.
"No glasses?" she asked, smiling that sweet little smile with that flirtatious glint in her eyes. She was still shivering - God, did she walk here? I could imagine all the horrible things that could have happened to her on that walk. Believe me, I could imagine them in every intricate detail. I rubbed her bare arms without another word, just thankful to see her here safe. She leaned in to me, her head on my chest, and wrapped her arms around me, pressing her short little nails into my back through my dress shirt. Suddenly, I was worried that she was crying.
I said her name, very softly, and ran my fingers through her hair. I wanted her so much in that moment, wanted so much to fix whatever was getting her down, wanted to spend that night with her. We hadn't spent much time in such close contact. "Hey, what's wrong?" I whispered.
She looked up. No tears. "Don't make me go home."
There was a pause as I turned over the options in my head. "I have just got a new theory of eternity," I replied, looking into her eyes, and then I kissed her.
I woke up screaming. Well, perhaps not screaming out loud - I'm never sure if it's out loud or just in my head - but I had seen that same horrifying image, that hooker from Baltimore wanting to know where her fingers, toes, and skin were. I could feel her hands on my chest, those horrible bloody palms pawing at me, howling my name.
I opened my eyes: it wasn't who I thought it was at all, but Cara, pleading for me to calm down.
"Oh my God -" I gasped.
She touched my hair, my cheek, ran her thumb over my lips, all the while murmuring my name. The sheets were all torn back, letting in the cool night air on my bare skin, which was shocking in itself, and her breasts were pressed against me, her heart beating as fast as mine. Her face was visible in the city light filtering through the curtains, and her hair rumpled around it like a halo. Even in the aftermath of a nightmare, she was beautiful.
I suppose we fell asleep after a while, because I woke again in the Saturday morning daylight with my arm around her, and hers around me. Idly, I ran my fingers over her elbow, remembering every detail of our night together. Her hair still smelled of shampoo, her skin still smooth from the shower she took hours ago. I would have thought that after three marriages and who knows how many minor relationships I would have known better: I had sworn to know better over and over, that I was done with attachments. I'm a grown man, I told myself, but here I am, falling in love again.
"Are you kidding me?" Elliott's voice is unmistakable from a mile away: I could hear it as I came around the corner Monday morning, and my detective's curiosity was piqued at the mere tone of it. "She's just a baby."
"Problem?" I asked him, from just behind him so he hadn't seen my approach. Largely, my interest was professional - you never know what might turn up over a weekend - but one of my few joys in life is getting to intimidate Elliott, and I take it were and when I can. "Who're we talking about?"
Oh, I saw Olivia's eyes flick away - I'm not a cop for nothing. I knew what they were talking about.
"Your little girlfriend, Munch," Elliott said, turning in his chair. "She's a kid."
"Aw come on, Elliott," Olivia spoke up. "Leave him alone."
"Gee, and where could this little tidbit of information have come from? Olivia?"
"She's not the only one to see her Friday, man," Fin said. "You kiss that same girl from the bar on the precinct steps and think nobody saw it?" The phone rang and he got it.
I hate it when my friends and coworkers use interrogation tactics against me. "So much for not bringing the personal life to the office," I commented, observationally. I was livid.
"Your personal life was standing on the precinct steps," Elliott snapped back. "She's what, twenty-one?"
"Twenty-two." I gave her earrings for her birthday last month.
"I've done worse," Olivia offered. Though I appreciated the effort, I wasn't in the mood for her peace offerings. There was honestly no excuse for them discussing Cara at work.
"That's the two-seven," Fin said. "They need us down there for a DOA."
Elliott looked disgusted. "She's just a kid," he repeated, standing up to look me in the eye.
"You've already made that brilliant assertion. Care to expand upon the statement?" I retorted. I didn't back up from him, glaring at him between my sunglasses and fedora. I was more pissed than on one of my wedding anniversaries.
"Guys!" Olivia said, standing up and trying to pull us apart. "She's not a kid: she's a grown-up. And I saw the look on her face when she was talking to you, John. She's clearly in love with you. Just leave it at that, okay? Children?"
What can you say back to that?
The weeks passed quickly. We saw each other whenever we could, and I was glad to be able to take her to the nicer parts of New York, the places I knew she couldn't afford on her meager teaching stipend. Sometimes we had wonderful dinners out: baby spinach leaves with feta and honey mustard, steak medium rare, and a bottle of red wine. I was ready to buy the world for her, and all she asked of me was time, but that in abundance.
But we also did simple things, like tonight when we went to the movies. Cara insisted on a thriller, one of those semi-authentic police dramas about deranged serial killers. I hate that sort of thing - too much like real life - but she had been fascinated by the commercials and I couldn't say no to her on opening night.
Now, as she sat beside me, transfixed, I let me mind wander, thinking about why exactly I hated these things. I can still remember the very first case that really shook me up, some guy back in Baltimore who killed a hooker. She wasn't raped, just choked until she was barely conscious and then mutilated alive. We never found the missing parts, and that was the start of my nightmares. I lost my second wife because of them, and hadn't spent the night with Cara since that first, when I'd been, thankfully, too tired to dream.
Cara took my hand. I hadn't been paying attention to the film, but evidently it was over. "John," she said, curiosity and concern in her eyes. "Where were you just now?"
"Nowhere," I said, quickly, trying to sound innocuous and covering my lie with a smile.
I walked her home that night, just the two of us. For the first time in years I felt at ease in public, blending in with all the other people in the crisp November evening. Of course, by "at ease" I mean that I didn't feel like a cop. She wanted to walk slowly, instead of the purposeful stride I'm accustomed to: her hand in mine was my purpose. I almost felt guilty for my weapon and the badge at my hip. When we came to her building, she just stood there, looking up at me, hope in her eyes. "Do you want to come up?"
I couldn't help but break her gaze. Of course I did! but the case I'd been working on that week was heavy on my mind and I couldn't bear to let my sleepless nights keep her from her work. "Do you have time on Friday for lunch?" I asked. She nodded and gave me a regretful kiss goodnight.
Friday at noon, I met her on the steps of the precinct as we'd agreed. Unfortunately, I was following Fin out to the car on an urgent call, Olivia and Elliott somewhere behind us, when I caught a glimpse of Cara's hair. In the flurry of phone calls and orders, I had nearly forgotten about our lunch date.
"John!" she called.
I excused myself from Fin. She must have intuited the position I was in, and how many of my coworkers were watching, because no sooner did she touch my arm than she pulled back. "Can we postpone, honey?" When did I start calling her that? "We just got a call ." I wanted to explain.
"John!" called another female voice: Olivia. She came speeding down the steps and stopped right next to me, a little close to my shoulder. "You coming?" she demanded. "I don't know if you've heard, but Cragen is breathing down our necks about this case."
Cara cocked an eyebrow but didn't say a word. Olivia stopped mid-sentence then as she realized that we'd been talking. I paused to let Cara's presence sink in, maybe to let Olivia realize just who she was, before introducing them, choosing their titles as carefully as possible. "Cara, this is Detective Benson. Cara Jones."
"Olivia," she corrected, extended a hand for Cara's. They shook hands briefly.
"Nice to meet you," Cara said. I wondered what was going on in her head.
"Can I get a raincheck on lunch?" I asked her.
"Of course. I'll give you a call." I smiled, wanting to apologize for leaving. With a sideways glance at Olivia, she leaned in and kissed me quickly. She nodded at Olivia and disappeared into the crowd. I felt like hell but went along with Olivia, wondering how many other detectives had just witnessed me, John Munch of all people, in a situation like that.
There was a special about Scottish nationalism on tv that night: I was just glad for something other than World War II. I got myself a glass of scotch to go with the theme and put my glasses on the table next to my chair. Aside from the noise from the street and the light pollution blocking out the stars, it was a nice quiet night, just my own thoughts and the television for background.
A thousand different questions battered my mind when I shut my eyes: some were about work (had I investigated every lead, talked to anyone who might know something?), others about the present, and others still the past. Too many things to fret over, too many worries for one man to deal with after almost sixty years of concern and loneliness. For whatever reason, my mind came to my ex-wives who had gotten the hell out at the first sign of trouble. On one hand, I couldn't blame them for not wanting to be married to a homicide detective with nightmares about walking corpses.
Then again, these were my so-called life-partners.
Was that a knock on the door? Who in the hell would be knocking at my door at nine at night? I picked up my piece from the coffee table and opened the door. "Cara," I said, surprised. I had no idea she even remembered how to get to my apartment, but clearly she did. Why didn't I have to buzz her in?
"Hey," she said, looking cold and a little nervous. I had forgotten to invite her in.
I opened the door and stepped aside, offering to take her coat, and then put my weapon away. I knew she didn't want to have to see that little reminder.
"No glasses?" she asked, smiling that sweet little smile with that flirtatious glint in her eyes. She was still shivering - God, did she walk here? I could imagine all the horrible things that could have happened to her on that walk. Believe me, I could imagine them in every intricate detail. I rubbed her bare arms without another word, just thankful to see her here safe. She leaned in to me, her head on my chest, and wrapped her arms around me, pressing her short little nails into my back through my dress shirt. Suddenly, I was worried that she was crying.
I said her name, very softly, and ran my fingers through her hair. I wanted her so much in that moment, wanted so much to fix whatever was getting her down, wanted to spend that night with her. We hadn't spent much time in such close contact. "Hey, what's wrong?" I whispered.
She looked up. No tears. "Don't make me go home."
There was a pause as I turned over the options in my head. "I have just got a new theory of eternity," I replied, looking into her eyes, and then I kissed her.
I woke up screaming. Well, perhaps not screaming out loud - I'm never sure if it's out loud or just in my head - but I had seen that same horrifying image, that hooker from Baltimore wanting to know where her fingers, toes, and skin were. I could feel her hands on my chest, those horrible bloody palms pawing at me, howling my name.
I opened my eyes: it wasn't who I thought it was at all, but Cara, pleading for me to calm down.
"Oh my God -" I gasped.
She touched my hair, my cheek, ran her thumb over my lips, all the while murmuring my name. The sheets were all torn back, letting in the cool night air on my bare skin, which was shocking in itself, and her breasts were pressed against me, her heart beating as fast as mine. Her face was visible in the city light filtering through the curtains, and her hair rumpled around it like a halo. Even in the aftermath of a nightmare, she was beautiful.
I suppose we fell asleep after a while, because I woke again in the Saturday morning daylight with my arm around her, and hers around me. Idly, I ran my fingers over her elbow, remembering every detail of our night together. Her hair still smelled of shampoo, her skin still smooth from the shower she took hours ago. I would have thought that after three marriages and who knows how many minor relationships I would have known better: I had sworn to know better over and over, that I was done with attachments. I'm a grown man, I told myself, but here I am, falling in love again.
"Are you kidding me?" Elliott's voice is unmistakable from a mile away: I could hear it as I came around the corner Monday morning, and my detective's curiosity was piqued at the mere tone of it. "She's just a baby."
"Problem?" I asked him, from just behind him so he hadn't seen my approach. Largely, my interest was professional - you never know what might turn up over a weekend - but one of my few joys in life is getting to intimidate Elliott, and I take it were and when I can. "Who're we talking about?"
Oh, I saw Olivia's eyes flick away - I'm not a cop for nothing. I knew what they were talking about.
"Your little girlfriend, Munch," Elliott said, turning in his chair. "She's a kid."
"Aw come on, Elliott," Olivia spoke up. "Leave him alone."
"Gee, and where could this little tidbit of information have come from? Olivia?"
"She's not the only one to see her Friday, man," Fin said. "You kiss that same girl from the bar on the precinct steps and think nobody saw it?" The phone rang and he got it.
I hate it when my friends and coworkers use interrogation tactics against me. "So much for not bringing the personal life to the office," I commented, observationally. I was livid.
"Your personal life was standing on the precinct steps," Elliott snapped back. "She's what, twenty-one?"
"Twenty-two." I gave her earrings for her birthday last month.
"I've done worse," Olivia offered. Though I appreciated the effort, I wasn't in the mood for her peace offerings. There was honestly no excuse for them discussing Cara at work.
"That's the two-seven," Fin said. "They need us down there for a DOA."
Elliott looked disgusted. "She's just a kid," he repeated, standing up to look me in the eye.
"You've already made that brilliant assertion. Care to expand upon the statement?" I retorted. I didn't back up from him, glaring at him between my sunglasses and fedora. I was more pissed than on one of my wedding anniversaries.
"Guys!" Olivia said, standing up and trying to pull us apart. "She's not a kid: she's a grown-up. And I saw the look on her face when she was talking to you, John. She's clearly in love with you. Just leave it at that, okay? Children?"
What can you say back to that?