The Tell-Tale Affair

This is a short-story that I wrote for an American Literature class a couple semesters ago. It is based on/inspired by the story "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. I'm pretty proud of it.

I could smell it.

Perhaps on another day it could have been ignored; I would simply face away from her, and ask her how her day was, maybe even offer to cook her a meal. We would talk about her work�" writing articles for The New Yorker, a job she acquired through an internship at Fordham University; she wrote about Jesuit-affairs and wars happening in countries too far away for anyone to really care�" and we would laugh when she joked about Barney Hughes, a quiet copy editor on the third floor, for he surely would have done something clumsy that day, as he always did. Her cheeks would become rosy when the wine in her glass from dinner would warm her stomach�" a red Domaine Loubejac that we bought for $15 from the grocer on 78th (we would pretend it was imported from a countryside facility somewhere off the coast of France)�" and I would brush a few loose strands of hair from her forehead with my fingertips; she would kiss me, (like I so wanted to kiss her,) and her lips would taste like the grapes of a faraway land that we would never reach. I would tell her how much I loved her, and her eyes would sparkle in the dim

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light of our small kitchen, and she would say she knew how much I loved her. Then, she would swallow the last of her wine, and place her hand atop of mine in an apology.

Today it hung in the air like a sign�" a neon sign, blaring, screaming! You know it to be true! �" forming a barricade between us. She glanced at me as her fingers tapped a distracted rhythm on the countertop, and she knew�" she knew! �" that I could smell it more prominently than ever before. We stood in complete silence; not complete, for her fingers tapped to that rhythm that only she understood. I wondered briefly, curiously, if she had always done that�" had I never noticed? had I never heard? the incessant tapping of acrylics on marble�" but the smell stopped me from investigating further. She was waiting to see what I would do. The sad truth was, I did not know. My mouth felt as if it were full of cotton; my lips were sealed with glue; my heart dropped into the depths of my stomach, and damn well nearly fell out of my butt. I sweated; felt the water bead up above my brow and slip cautiously down my cheek until it dripped onto the tile floor; it landed with such a crack that the force of it threw me back to eight days before�" Yes. That is when it all began, was it not?

Sunday morning, July the ninth of the year two-thousand and seventeen. I stayed home with her that previous night; we watched a film on Etymology�" funny, that there is a word for the study of word origins and meanings; do we, then, study this word as well? �" and ate popcorn, and drank soda, and laughed at how unhealthy we both were. It was an easy night, and I was grateful for it, and I was grateful for her; so, when her phone chimed at the odd hour of six in the morning, and she whispered to me through a shower of kisses that she had to leave early

for work, it did not bother me. I drifted back into a slumber filled with visions of her. Her return later that day was as normal as any other; my ears perked at the sound of her keys in the door, my heart swelled at the sight of her; her voice (tired and worn from a day’s use) was like music; her kiss was as soft and as warm as ever. Maybe, I think now, as my ghost shimmers silently above the memory, I should have noticed the glow on her skin that only shines after a night of sweet kisses and passionate embraces. But, it was dinner time; she brought home fresh salmon and earthy potatoes.

It was not until Tuesday night, the eleventh, that I first smelt it on her�" blue ice; fresh, minty, but salty; like musk; I pictured something with a ship on the bottle�" for it was obscuring her usual floral aroma. Before I could form a thought, the words spilled from my lips in a hurry�" “What is that smell?”

I did not realize it then, as I do now, that I had just squashed any hope there had been to fix this�" to fix us.

She looked up at me from her laptop�" her long lashes were dark in contrast to her white cheeks, paler than usual�" and she quirked a perfect eyebrow in scrutiny.

“What smell?” she asked me.

“Yours.” I answered.

“Mine?” she followed.

“Yes, yours.” I repeated.

“Do I smell bad?” She quipped.

I began worrying my bottom lip while I went over my answer carefully in my mind.

“It’s not that you smell bad,” I began. “It’s that you don’t smell like… yourself.”

The right choice of words, it seemed, for her eyebrows furrowed and she lifted her arm to sniff herself. After a contemplative second, she said�" “I went to the beach today.”

This had surprised me. You see, we live in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, and while it is only twenty-seven minutes away from her work in Midtown�" a ten-minute walk to the station, five-minute subway ride on the 6-train towards Brooklyn, followed by a twelve-minute walk to the Times’ tower�" she has a very busy schedule. She leaves at nine in the morning, (unless called in early, like that Sunday morning,) and arrives to work at nine-thirty (given that she reached her train on time); after she has had her cup of coffee and said her hello’s, she heads to the research facility on the fourth floor, (two floors above her assigned office,) where she picks her preferred source material. She enters her office at ten (usually) and begins her writing process. She does this until twelve-fifteen, breaks for lunch, and then arrives back in her small space an hour later to continue writing well into the afternoon. At five, she goes to the grocer off East 42nd Street and picks up supper (if it is her night to get dinner; if it is my turn, I go to the grocer on 72nd) before boarding the 6-train at Grand Central towards Pelham Bay Park. She’s always home at six o’clock in the evening.

Sensing my anxiety, she offered an explanation�" “I went because Rodney�" you know Rodney, baby, Rodney Leonard, he’s the new exec, you met him at the welcoming party a few weeks ago�" well, he needed Monica and me to run some articles to Crain’s, cause of our merge, and we were so close to the East River that we just had to stop and put our feet in the sand. I know, it’s not exactly the beach, but I just had to see the water.”

The story had been enough for me, the old me, the inexperienced one�" how could I just let it go? �" and I did not question her again.

The smell was stronger the next night.

For a moment, it felt as if all the oxygen in my body left me, (ran from me, abandoned me,) but that moment was truly only a second, and then I was washing my hands to prepare the vegetables and meat for dinner; we were having chicken cacciatore and steamed Jasmine rice, and soon the sprigs of basil and oregano, mixed in with the briny fragrance of the tomato paste that I blended with a strong smelling spirit that I have since forgotten the name of, (some form of white wine, I suppose,) along with sweet and gluey �" starchy �" rice… The smell was but a distant memory by the end of the night.

The next two days passed without incident; that Friday night, the fourteenth, when she set her wine glass down onto the table with a clink (we had just eaten dinner; spaghetti with garlic toast), a swoon of a sigh passing through her cherry lips. Her hair cascaded in dark-chocolate ribbons over her shoulders and down her back, a never-ending fountain of sweetness and sugar. She smiled at me, and I grew warm inside from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. I loved her, I knew; but, I never realized how in love with her I was until that precious moment, when our small kitchen in our dingy apartment in the Upper East Side was suddenly, perfectly, just enough. I wanted to kiss her, to make her laugh, so I did; I kissed her hard, until she could not breathe, and I kissed her softly, which had the same effect; I kissed her sloppily, and she laughed, and she looked beautiful with her cherry lips, and chocolate hair that slipped slowly and sensually off her shoulders, and�"

And I saw it.

A bruise on that porcelain skin.

This was not like any bruise I ever saw; no-no, not that I had never seen a bruise like that, but that I had never seen a bruise of that kind on her unless it was I who made it.

This was a love bruise�" love mark, bite, suck, burn�" that sat on that beautiful shoulder. It was blue and purple, and red, and pink. It was so bright against her skin that I nearly thought I was seeing things; but, no, it was there�" yes, it was, and it laughed at me, dear God�" and it looked to be no older than a day. The sight of it made my stomach twist and flip like a fish right after you cut off its head. The meaning behind that bruise frightened me�" it still laughed, I could hear it, echoing all around me�" and not even those soft hands that could once scare away any terror could comfort me. I had run that night (into the bedroom) and she stayed on the couch.

We did not see each other for two days.

I stayed in my safe-haven of smelly sheets and a creaky bed frame until she would leave in the morning; only then would I slip out into the kitchen to make myself something to eat, drink, but then it would be back into the bedroom. I felt myself becoming hollow during those dreary two days; a distant, sad feeling that caused my stomach to empty itself and made my eyes wet. It sat heavily upon my body, forcing me to lay on the bed, only getting up if my stomach growled or my mouth dried up. When she came home, she would walk towards my safe-space, her shadow slipping through the crack under the door. I did not move�" I would not dare�" until I heard the creaking of water-logged floorboards, and saw the blackness of her shadow tail after her like a starving dog does after a scrap of food.

I emerged from the room that coming Monday, July seventeenth of two-thousand seventeen, and found her in the kitchen.

Today I found her in the kitchen.

Today I found that smell in the kitchen.

I feel sick as my ghost slips back into my body. The blood is pounding loudly in my head, and I feel dizzy; I grab hold on the counter, my hand falling precariously next to her own tapping one.

Except it is not tapping anymore.

I breathe in through my nostrils, filling my lungs with as much air as I can, before picking up her hand and holding it in my own. Her arm stiffens when I pull her hand close to my lips.

Except there is no arm attached anymore.

Moving over to the stove, I glance into the pot of boiling water and, deciding that it is hot enough, I toss in the hand�" the left one, the one I had planned to place my mother’s old gold band on�" and I set the timer (it would need to boil for about 30 minutes so the skin will be soft enough to peel) and move to the cutting board to work on the vegetables. I cut them small and cube-shaped. They say that after spending a whole day cooking, the Chef has usually lost their appetite; luckily, I had already eaten earlier that day�" one of the thighs had made a fine substitute for pork in my honey-glazed ham recipe�" so I still had the energy to cut up the rest of the meat. The soup I am working on will be enough for the remainder of the week; the rest of the meat can be stored in the freezer.

It was dinner time; she had offered herself as my meal.

Two days later, there was a knock on my door. As I was unaccustomed to company outside of her own, I cautiously peered out through the peephole and was a little more than shocked to see the smiling and well-shaven face of Rodney Leonard, the new executive of The New Yorker. I stepped back from the door and gathered myself up. This was my chance to show that everything was fine, nothing was wrong, and that I was innocent. I unlocked the bolt-lock and swung the door open, offering a greeting. Rodney grinned at me.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything…” He says.

“No! No. Not at all.” I say rather candidly. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, you see, a certain writer of ours hasn’t shown up for work these last two days�"”

“Oh, yes. Of course. Why don’t you come in?” I hold the door open for him.

He steps inside, seemingly hesitant at first, and brushes past me. I shut the door and take another deep breath�"

And I smell it.

That smell blue ice; fresh, minty, but salty; like musk; something with a ship on the bottle was now digging its way through my body, filling me up to the brim and more so that my very pores leak with the stench. A chill runs down my spine as I turn towards him, studying him, sizing him up; the smell that once haunted me through her was now standing�" an apparition�" in my living room. I dare not move from my spot next to the door, only watching as Rodney drifts about my apartment as if he had been here many times before�" he has, she brought him here, he has slept in your bed�" until, eventually, he turns to me. He opens his mouth to speak, but all I hear is a high-pitched ringing. I frown and place my pinky finger in my ear, wiggling it, hoping to shake the noise away; but, it still rings. In fact, it becomes louder, more distinct; it is a rhythm, I realize with acute horror; the incessant tapping of acrylic on marble. My body shakes with something I cannot control, sweat dripping from my brows and into my eyes. My chest constricts, stopping my breath, and then I am drowning on air, coughing it up and swallowing it back in as if I had been too long without it. Rodney’s face shifts and dear God, he can hear it too�" the clack clack clack of those thirty-five dollar french tips she got last Friday at the nail salon off of Queens Boulevard; they strike the marble countertops that are so very out of place in my one-hundred square foot apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. My stomach rolls and she is there, too, crawling her way up my throat�" the soup and the ham and the roasts�" in a last attempt to call for help. She had screamed that night, had she not? Though I covered her lips with my own and swallowed them; they were building up inside of me now, escaping, because that is what they were meant to do, was it not? Screams were meant to be heard! I know, now�" I know this now! �" that I was not meant to silence her; she lives through me, and I scream as she should have screamed that night, and Rodney jumps out of his socks, and we run, grabbing Rodney, dragging him to the freezer�" please come with me! �" and we scream with an agonized cry as we throw open the door�"

“Here! I am here! How can you not see me? I am not so far-gone that I will be ignored. Do you see me now? Where is the rest of me?�" HA! Look into my throat and you will find my hand, waiting to be grasped, so I can be pulled from this darkness and maybe, finally, see that land that I once could never reach!”