Chapter One

 

Get out, get out, get out, get out!" Liza shouted.

Aubrey turned on her with eyes flaring, though he was still impeccably civil.

"You bitch," he seethed. He pulled a nylon sock over his thin foot and slipped it into the Italian loafer. "No need to fret, I'm gone." He straightened his tie in front of the mirror, then adjusted his pale tan suit coat. He looked at her as if he wanted to say more, but didn't.

His impeccable clothes once again adorned his impeccable body, despite the fact that he'd dressed in haste. She wanted to scream, her throat burned. Lust and hate consumed her. As he left the apartment, his accusation rang in her ears with a dead thud, "slut tease."

The vase on the table in the hallway went flying through the air crashing against the door and shattering into a thousand small pieces.

 

a

 

"You're too critical, both of you," Cynthia charged, as she stuffed the last of Aubrey's clothes into a duffel bag later that day.

"You're wrinkling everything," Liza observed.

Cynthia looked at her disgusted. "See, you think too much like him, he'd tell me the same thing. Well, he can't have it both ways, if he's going to send me to get his stuff he can take it the way I give it to him." She pulled the last of his socks from the dresser drawer. "Why do you care anyway?"

"I don't."

"Bull."

"I don't care, I really don't, not anymore, not after . . . this morning." She cocked her head sassily, an impertinent pout adorning her face.

"It's lust, that's all it is," Cynthia continued, "And what do you mean "this morning"?"

Liza considered telling Cynthia everything, Aubrey's flaming indictment of her scandalous sexual appetites; but that was a Pandora's Box she didn't want to open, for Cynthia or herself.

Cynthia finished packing Aubrey's things, then grabbing her beer from the dresser, she sank into the bed to finish it off. "You just liked his tight buns, and sparks fly, and you think it's love." She sighed wearily. "But it's not."

"You're one to talk."

Cynthia laughed. "I may not know what love is, but I know what it isn't. You like the image of each other, . . . this, this perfect picture you manage to produce for the world. But it has nothing to do with who you really are inside, so when you unwrap the package, what do you have? Nothing."

Liza looked at her, feeling pained and bored; she'd heard this before.

"You just never had a way of drawing out the best in each other, you're both so self absorbed. I wish I'd never introduced you."

"It was a lot more than what you think. And frankly, you're being too kind to him, but I suppose that's expected from his sister."

"Oh, I know he's a selfish slut, and he wants his way on everything. God I lived with him for years, but . . . the truth?"

She looked at her so sincerely, Liza could have spit! She'd tell her anyway, and was probably right, she always was-unnerving as it is to be best friends with the most reasoned, sensible, wise person on earth.

"You need someone that's not so pretty, not so much like yourself, someone raw around the edges, who drinks too much, who wouldn't care if he embarrassed you; someone without all your rules, some decadent old hippie who won't put up with your whining, but who won't drop you because you do." Liza looked at her friend's thoughtful expression for a moment as she waited for her to finish her speech. "You need someone to put you in your place with a firm hand."

If only Cynthia knew how right she was, Liza thought to herself.

It had not been a good season for men in Liza's life. Three in two years, all making her explode sexually for a few brief months; but when it came to listening to her, and understanding the dark secrets of her bruised soul, and being patient with her odd needs, they couldn't be bothered.

 

Why did Cynthia always make sense? Liza wondered. She was always there to calm her, observe every little detail of her tempestuous relationship with men, and then dispense tidbits of wisdom with amiable brutality when the break-up was over. Cynthia may not have known everything about Liza, she didn't know all the hidden things, the secrets fears in her mysterious convoluted mind; though she did know, by some practical intuition, that Liza needed something different than her "pretty" attractions.

But despite the advice, both of them knew Liza would probably do the same thing over again, letting the place between her legs overrule her reason. She'd find herself in bed with another man who couldn't give her what she needed and secretly desired. Trying to turn some transient lust into meaningful love ended up looking painfully ridiculous.

"Let me put a frozen pizza in the oven before you go," Liza suggested.

"No, I don't need it, besides I have to go, Aubrey wants his things by eight, he's planning some weekend away." She rolled her eyes.

Liza nodded, slightly wistfully. There were things about him she'd miss, it seemed strange to be alone again, another ending . . . .

"Don't do it," Cynthia charged. Don't spend your weekend pining in this apartment, eating everything in sight, I've seen you do it before." One tear began to form in the corner of Liza's eye, as Cynthia gave her a quick hug, and then flung the duffel bag awkwardly over her shoulder. "And don't cry anymore, it's just wasted. He may be my brother, but he wasn't worth it."

"I just had such hopes, and now?"

"We'll get by, Liza, we always do." She smiled tenderly. "Now don't eat," she ordered.

"I won't, I have lots of work at the gallery this weekend, a little auction Evan has planned. And he'll be delighted about this break-up!"

"To hell with Evan!"

"Well, there's another story just bubbling its way out of me. That should keep me happy."

"As long as it's not about Aubrey." Cynthia looked deadly serious.

"No, not this one."

"Good." She moved clumsily through the door with her brother's three overstuffed bags, "I've got to quit doing this, the little tramp," she added exasperated, and she was down the hall and in the elevator managing a quick wave toward Liza before the door closed.

The apartment was strange without him, his ten month tenure beneath her roof had begun with his little boy excitement and her lust. Thrilled, she'd been thrilled with his handsome face, his wit, his lively eyes, the dedication to his art. He'd been the perfect man in every way, except that he never understood what she wanted from him. He had called her kinky, perverted, some kind of weirdo. How many times had he said, "I'll never do that, it's ridiculous!" His words rang in her ears.

But still, he was gone. She had that emptiness again. And what was worse, that strange obsessive voice dissecting her brain, to find the crack in her consciousness that would allow it entry, and then free reign. So many things she pushed aside for so long. Cynthia was right about her. She needed that "other kind of man", whoever that was, who would really take control and give her what she wanted. Yet as much as she yearned for it, that kind of surrender scared her.