The Waiting Room by T. M. Wright

Author:T. M. Wright [W., Wright, T. M.;Armstrong, F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-THREE

When I got back to the apartment, I was still wearing the herringbone tweed sports jacket and dress pants I'd put on to meet Leslie at Isadore's two days earlier. They were a mess. The coat smelled of sweat under laid by the strong odor of damp wood that permeated the beach house; the pants had a small, ragged rip in the knee, I had no idea why, and a big mustard stain on the breast pocket.

Minutes after I got back, the phone rang. I screwed up some courage and answered it. It was Leslie. "Sam," she said, and I could tell that she was trying hard to control her temper, "what the hell is going on?"

"Hi, Leslie. Listen, I'm sorry about missing you the other night—"

"You've got exactly one minute to explain yourself, Sam. Starting now."

"One minute? Gee, I don't know, there's really quite a lot to sort out—"

"Eight, nine, ten—"

"Don't count, Leslie. If you want to count, count to yourself, okay?"

"You're not very reliable, are you, Sam?"

"Reliable? I don't know. I always thought I was."

She sighed. "Can we get together? We really do have to talk."

"About getting married, Leslie? Is that what you want to talk about?"

"My God, Sam, you make it sound like a day at the amusement park."

I cleared my throat. I was very nervous. "Yes, I do, don't I? I don't mean to. It's more than a day at the amusement park, I realize that. It's a very, very important ... step in our lives—"

"Stop babbling, Sam."

"Yes. I am babbling, aren't I? I don't mean to babble—"

"Isadore's, Sam. No, wait. Not Isadore's. They're closed until five. Let's try Jerry's instead. In an hour, okay? It's at 65th and Broadway. Promise me you'll be there, Sam. Because if you're not there, I'm sorry, but—"

"I promise."

"Uh-huh," she said. "And the check's in the mail." A pause. "Okay, Sam. In an hour. At Jerry's, 65th and Broadway. Have you got all that?"

"Yes." I repeated it. "Thanks, Leslie. I'll be there with bells on."

"I've heard that one before, Sam. I don't need bells. I just need you."

~ * ~

Jerry's was an Italian deli that smelled strongly of cheese and meat. There were whole bologna sausages and salamis hanging everywhere, rounds of provolone on display on top of the counter, and four or five dark-haired thirtyish men in white shirts, white pants, and stained white aprons barking orders not only to each other but also to the dozens and dozens of customers who piled in.

I found Leslie at the rear of the place sitting at one of six round, glass-topped tables. There was a fake rose in a tiny cream-colored vase at the center of the table, and a demitasse cup filled with very dark coffee in front of her—espresso, I guessed. When she saw me, she smiled stiffly and motioned me to sit down. I leaned over, kissed her—which she at first tried to avoid—then I sat across from her. The table was small enough that my knees touched hers.

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