the very top shelf has loosened from its friends and is teetering on the edge. “Crap,” is all I have time to think before gravity takes over and the book plunges toward my head. I catch part of the tile as the hardcover missile targets me. The Art … registers in my brain before I’m seeing stars.
Chapter 7
“Hello? Sue?” a female voice calls from outside my broken window. “It's Dahlia. What's going on in there? Should I be calling 911?”
I’m sitting on the couch reading while clutching an ice pack to my head where I got clocked with the book. I look up as my neighbor Dahlia swipes back the curtain, her eyes darting apprehensively around my living room. She’s scared, but she’s trying to hide it. I don’t know Dahlia super well, but I can tell from the meticulous way she dresses that she doesn’t like feeling out of control, and finding my mutilated corpse in a puddle of blood would probably put a damper on her day. “ Please tell me you're not dead in here. I really hate a mess,” she says.
Dahlia is wearing dark red lipstick that would never dream of smudging beyond the confines of her full lips, a midnight blue silk blouse (without a wrinkle) that’s unbuttoned down to the bra line, and a gray pencil skirt that perfectly hugs her slightly curvy hips. I’m sure if I could see her feet, I’d find they are clad in a pair of sling-back stilettos. She’s very p rofessional but with a strong undercurrent of feline sexy. A style and attitude I could never pull off in a million years.
I look up from my reading. “ Hey, Dahlia. No, I'm alive.”
Through the window, Dahlia peers about the room again, sighs a little with relief, and then looks annoyed. “Why are there toiletries and self-help books everywhere out here?”
“I broke up with my boyfriend,” I tell her.
She nods. “That explains it.”
I unlock the door, and Dahlia enters my living room like a finicky cat trying not to step in a puddle. “And you're okay?” she asks.
I think about it for a moment and then say, “ I am, actually.”
Still concerned, Dahlia gestures toward the ice pack. “Did he assault you or something?”
“ No.” I let out a small laugh to show I really mean it. “A book fell off the shelf.”
Using only two fingers , and with obvious distaste, Dahlia picks up a sticky tube of something off the floor. “So you've decided you're going to stop bathing and reading self-help books?” She raises both eyebrows.
“ No.” I’m firm on this. “I'm going to keep bathing. I just don't enjoy smelling like a baby's ass.”
She shrugs, as if that much is obvious. “ Who does?”
Using the toe of one of her pointy sling-back shoes, Dahlia nudges a portion of the cleaved book. “ And the self-help books?”
I snatch the book from the floor and fling it out the window, ignoring her startled look. “ No,” I tell her. “Those are definitely out. At least,” I add, “the ones on relationships.”
This makes Dahlia’s eyebrows rise even further up her forehead. “You plan on reading something else for advice?”
“Yes,” I say while flinging myself back on the couch, heedless of how it makes the bookshelf tremble.
She’s intrigued. “What? If you don't mind me asking.”
“This,” I say, shoving the book that’s just been engrossing me into her hands.
Dahlia perches herself on a chair and crosses her long legs. “ The Art of War ,” she reads, then glances over at me. “By Sun Tzu.”
I give her a tight, affirming smile, nodding my head once.
Dahlia tosses me a concerned look. “You realize this is a book on military strategy.”
“No.” She’s wrong there. “It's THE book on military strategy,” I tell her.
Glancing back at the book’s cover, she frowns. “ I'm not so sure this was meant to be used as a dating guide.”
I cross my arms. “ Says who?”
“ The guy who wrote it.”
“That's just bad marketing.” I wave off her
Chapter 7
“Hello? Sue?” a female voice calls from outside my broken window. “It's Dahlia. What's going on in there? Should I be calling 911?”
I’m sitting on the couch reading while clutching an ice pack to my head where I got clocked with the book. I look up as my neighbor Dahlia swipes back the curtain, her eyes darting apprehensively around my living room. She’s scared, but she’s trying to hide it. I don’t know Dahlia super well, but I can tell from the meticulous way she dresses that she doesn’t like feeling out of control, and finding my mutilated corpse in a puddle of blood would probably put a damper on her day. “ Please tell me you're not dead in here. I really hate a mess,” she says.
Dahlia is wearing dark red lipstick that would never dream of smudging beyond the confines of her full lips, a midnight blue silk blouse (without a wrinkle) that’s unbuttoned down to the bra line, and a gray pencil skirt that perfectly hugs her slightly curvy hips. I’m sure if I could see her feet, I’d find they are clad in a pair of sling-back stilettos. She’s very p rofessional but with a strong undercurrent of feline sexy. A style and attitude I could never pull off in a million years.
I look up from my reading. “ Hey, Dahlia. No, I'm alive.”
Through the window, Dahlia peers about the room again, sighs a little with relief, and then looks annoyed. “Why are there toiletries and self-help books everywhere out here?”
“I broke up with my boyfriend,” I tell her.
She nods. “That explains it.”
I unlock the door, and Dahlia enters my living room like a finicky cat trying not to step in a puddle. “And you're okay?” she asks.
I think about it for a moment and then say, “ I am, actually.”
Still concerned, Dahlia gestures toward the ice pack. “Did he assault you or something?”
“ No.” I let out a small laugh to show I really mean it. “A book fell off the shelf.”
Using only two fingers , and with obvious distaste, Dahlia picks up a sticky tube of something off the floor. “So you've decided you're going to stop bathing and reading self-help books?” She raises both eyebrows.
“ No.” I’m firm on this. “I'm going to keep bathing. I just don't enjoy smelling like a baby's ass.”
She shrugs, as if that much is obvious. “ Who does?”
Using the toe of one of her pointy sling-back shoes, Dahlia nudges a portion of the cleaved book. “ And the self-help books?”
I snatch the book from the floor and fling it out the window, ignoring her startled look. “ No,” I tell her. “Those are definitely out. At least,” I add, “the ones on relationships.”
This makes Dahlia’s eyebrows rise even further up her forehead. “You plan on reading something else for advice?”
“Yes,” I say while flinging myself back on the couch, heedless of how it makes the bookshelf tremble.
She’s intrigued. “What? If you don't mind me asking.”
“This,” I say, shoving the book that’s just been engrossing me into her hands.
Dahlia perches herself on a chair and crosses her long legs. “ The Art of War ,” she reads, then glances over at me. “By Sun Tzu.”
I give her a tight, affirming smile, nodding my head once.
Dahlia tosses me a concerned look. “You realize this is a book on military strategy.”
“No.” She’s wrong there. “It's THE book on military strategy,” I tell her.
Glancing back at the book’s cover, she frowns. “ I'm not so sure this was meant to be used as a dating guide.”
I cross my arms. “ Says who?”
“ The guy who wrote it.”
“That's just bad marketing.” I wave off her
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