Read Online Shakespeare's Trollop by Charlaine Harris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlaine Harris
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though I knew that, I didnât seem to be able to quench that resentful smoldering inside me.
I went to my next job, and then home, without being able to find a thought to still my inner restlessness. Jack, whose timing was often off, chose that moment to call me.
Every now and then Jack told me all about a case he was working on. But sometimes, especially in a case involving financial transactions and large sums of money, he kept his mouth shut, and this was one of those times. He missed me very much, he said. And I believed him. But I had unworthy thoughts, ideas that dismayed me; not their content, exactly, but the fact that I was having them. California, the home of tanned young hardbodies, I thought; Jack, the most passionate man Iâd ever met, was in California. I wasnât jealous of a woman, but a state .
Not surprisingly, the conversation didnât go well. I was at my most clipped and inaccessible; Jack was frustrated and angry that I wasnât happier heâd called right in the middle of his busy day. I knew I was being impossible, without seeming to be able to stop it, and I believe he knew the same.
We needed to be together more. After weâd hung up, just barely managing not to snarl at each other, I made myself face the facts. One weekend every now and then wasnât enough. It took us hours to get re-accustomed to ourselves as a couple, together. After that we had a wonderful time, but then we had to go through the detachment process when Jack returned to Little Rock. His hours were unpredictable. My hours were generally regular. Only by living in the same town were we likely to see each other consistently enough to establish our relationship.
Your own life is plenty hard without complicating it with that of another. For a moment I wondered if we should stop trying. The idea was so painful that I had to admit to myself, all over again, that Jack was necessary to me.
I didnât want to call him back when I was so fraught. I couldnât predict what he would say, either. So what I ended up doing that evening was going into the empty guest bedroom and kicking the hell out of my punching bag.
F IVE
Thursday was biceps day in my personal schedule. Bicep curls may look impressive, but theyâre not my favorite exercise. And theyâre hard to do correctly. Most people swing the dumbbells up. Of course, the more swing you put in it, the less youâre working your biceps. Iâve noticed that in every movie scene set in a gym, the characters are either doing bicep curls or bench presses. Usually the guy doing bicep curls is a jerk.
Just as I put the twenty-five-pound barbells back on the weight rack, Bobo Winthrop walked in with a girl. Bobo, though maybe twelve years younger than me, was my friend. I was glad to see him, and glad to see the girl accompanying him; for the past couple of years, even after all the trouble Iâd had with his family, Bobo had been convinced that I was the woman for him. Now that Bobo divided his time between college in nearby Montrose and visits home to check on his ailing grandmother, visit his family, and do his laundry, I seldom got to visit with him. I realized Iâd missed him, and that made me wary.
As I watched Bobo start working his way around the room, shaking hands and patting backs, I moved from free weights to the preacher bench. The short young woman in tow behind him kept smiling as Bobo, shoving his floppy blond hair out of his eyes, introduced her to the motley crew who inhabited the gym at this early hour. She had a good, easy, meet-and-greet style.
The early-morning people at Body Time ranged from Brian Gruber, an executive at a local mattress-manufacturing plant, to Jerri Sizemore, whose claim to fame was that sheâd been married four times. As I put weights on the short curl bar at the preacher bench, I marked Boboâs progress with a touch of amusement. In his golden wake, he left smiles and some infusion of
I went to my next job, and then home, without being able to find a thought to still my inner restlessness. Jack, whose timing was often off, chose that moment to call me.
Every now and then Jack told me all about a case he was working on. But sometimes, especially in a case involving financial transactions and large sums of money, he kept his mouth shut, and this was one of those times. He missed me very much, he said. And I believed him. But I had unworthy thoughts, ideas that dismayed me; not their content, exactly, but the fact that I was having them. California, the home of tanned young hardbodies, I thought; Jack, the most passionate man Iâd ever met, was in California. I wasnât jealous of a woman, but a state .
Not surprisingly, the conversation didnât go well. I was at my most clipped and inaccessible; Jack was frustrated and angry that I wasnât happier heâd called right in the middle of his busy day. I knew I was being impossible, without seeming to be able to stop it, and I believe he knew the same.
We needed to be together more. After weâd hung up, just barely managing not to snarl at each other, I made myself face the facts. One weekend every now and then wasnât enough. It took us hours to get re-accustomed to ourselves as a couple, together. After that we had a wonderful time, but then we had to go through the detachment process when Jack returned to Little Rock. His hours were unpredictable. My hours were generally regular. Only by living in the same town were we likely to see each other consistently enough to establish our relationship.
Your own life is plenty hard without complicating it with that of another. For a moment I wondered if we should stop trying. The idea was so painful that I had to admit to myself, all over again, that Jack was necessary to me.
I didnât want to call him back when I was so fraught. I couldnât predict what he would say, either. So what I ended up doing that evening was going into the empty guest bedroom and kicking the hell out of my punching bag.
F IVE
Thursday was biceps day in my personal schedule. Bicep curls may look impressive, but theyâre not my favorite exercise. And theyâre hard to do correctly. Most people swing the dumbbells up. Of course, the more swing you put in it, the less youâre working your biceps. Iâve noticed that in every movie scene set in a gym, the characters are either doing bicep curls or bench presses. Usually the guy doing bicep curls is a jerk.
Just as I put the twenty-five-pound barbells back on the weight rack, Bobo Winthrop walked in with a girl. Bobo, though maybe twelve years younger than me, was my friend. I was glad to see him, and glad to see the girl accompanying him; for the past couple of years, even after all the trouble Iâd had with his family, Bobo had been convinced that I was the woman for him. Now that Bobo divided his time between college in nearby Montrose and visits home to check on his ailing grandmother, visit his family, and do his laundry, I seldom got to visit with him. I realized Iâd missed him, and that made me wary.
As I watched Bobo start working his way around the room, shaking hands and patting backs, I moved from free weights to the preacher bench. The short young woman in tow behind him kept smiling as Bobo, shoving his floppy blond hair out of his eyes, introduced her to the motley crew who inhabited the gym at this early hour. She had a good, easy, meet-and-greet style.
The early-morning people at Body Time ranged from Brian Gruber, an executive at a local mattress-manufacturing plant, to Jerri Sizemore, whose claim to fame was that sheâd been married four times. As I put weights on the short curl bar at the preacher bench, I marked Boboâs progress with a touch of amusement. In his golden wake, he left smiles and some infusion of
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