it, Emma.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I love you, Nick. I love you, Lieutenant D’Nofrio . I just want you to know that.”
He closed his eyes and set the hotel Bible down on the bed. Before leaving the room, he pulled his pants back on and went over to the writing desk and grabbed the bottle of Red Truck by the neck.
—Chapter V—
The backup generators kicked on just as night approached. Nick was up on the ladder, ushering a stroke of green paint in a horizontal line across the bottom half of the mural when, above his head, the light fizzed, popped, and came on. A muffled early evening cheer could be heard from both the lobby and the adjoining ground-floor restaurants. Nick, who had been painting mostly in the dark since after lunch (except for the flashlight given to him by the concierge that he’d propped in place on one of the ladder’s steps, affixed by a length of packaging string), sighed and climbed down the ladder. He wiped his hands on an old rag that smelled of turpentine then picked up the bottle of Red Truck, which was half empty now. He took a drink from the bottle then packed up the rest of his equipment. At one point during the afternoon, the young bellhop had returned (reeking of marijuana) and set Nick’s trunk on another dolly for him. There were plenty of dollies, the bellhop explained, and it made sense just to leave the trunk on this one so Nick could easily roll it back and forth from the lobby to the storage closet and back again at his own discretion. Nick thanked him and, this time, insisted the kid accept a five-dollar tip.
Nick rolled the dolly and the trunk into the storage closet and locked the door. Carrying the wine, he went to the bank of elevators at the other end of the corridor and rode up to the sixth floor. Emma was not in the room.
He set the wine on the nightstand next to the Holy Bible and a couple of colored leaflets then disappeared into the bathroom to take a long, hot shower. The scent of Emma’s body, fresh and undeniably female, still lingered in the bathroom air. He turned the water as hot as it would go, filling the bathroom with steam in an attempt to sweat Emma’s female scent from the air.
He stood naked before the mirror over the sink. His body still looked tight and to be in good shape. His calves were well-defined, his chest broad and masculine and sprouting a vague T of hair at the upper portion of his chest. His waist was narrow and pale—much paler than the rest of him, which was mostly tanned and naturally dark—and his shoulders came out like twin hubs, strong, tanned, and only vaguely pimpled. His arms were not big or overly muscular, but they were certainly good, healthy-looking arms…except, of course, for his right arm, beginning just at the elbow and tracing down the length of his arm to the wrist of his right hand, his palm, and the front and back of his hand. His fingers, too. Tracing down. It wasn’t the arm that was so bad and the arm itself never bothered him. Cosmetics meant nothing to him. There was a deep, puckered, raw-looking tract of pink skin running from the crook of his elbow down to the center of his palm where it dispersed in an eruption of jagged, pink tributaries, the discolored flesh startlingly in evidence, nearly obscene, against the dark pitch of his natural flesh-tone. The scar was not very wide, but it was long and it was visible. But that was all, and the arm itself was not necessarily bad. The hand, though, was not pretty and was not—and never would be—the same. It was not good.
He held it up now and looked at it, holding it far enough away from his face to not truly see everything about it. The last two fingers were misshapen. The soft and tender flesh of his palm was a corrupt and inhospitable terrain, marred by jagged flecks of poorly-healed flesh and bisected by the crooked, railroad track scar that originated at his elbow. Likewise, the back of his hand was ridged with scars, like large ball bearings
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I love you, Nick. I love you, Lieutenant D’Nofrio . I just want you to know that.”
He closed his eyes and set the hotel Bible down on the bed. Before leaving the room, he pulled his pants back on and went over to the writing desk and grabbed the bottle of Red Truck by the neck.
—Chapter V—
The backup generators kicked on just as night approached. Nick was up on the ladder, ushering a stroke of green paint in a horizontal line across the bottom half of the mural when, above his head, the light fizzed, popped, and came on. A muffled early evening cheer could be heard from both the lobby and the adjoining ground-floor restaurants. Nick, who had been painting mostly in the dark since after lunch (except for the flashlight given to him by the concierge that he’d propped in place on one of the ladder’s steps, affixed by a length of packaging string), sighed and climbed down the ladder. He wiped his hands on an old rag that smelled of turpentine then picked up the bottle of Red Truck, which was half empty now. He took a drink from the bottle then packed up the rest of his equipment. At one point during the afternoon, the young bellhop had returned (reeking of marijuana) and set Nick’s trunk on another dolly for him. There were plenty of dollies, the bellhop explained, and it made sense just to leave the trunk on this one so Nick could easily roll it back and forth from the lobby to the storage closet and back again at his own discretion. Nick thanked him and, this time, insisted the kid accept a five-dollar tip.
Nick rolled the dolly and the trunk into the storage closet and locked the door. Carrying the wine, he went to the bank of elevators at the other end of the corridor and rode up to the sixth floor. Emma was not in the room.
He set the wine on the nightstand next to the Holy Bible and a couple of colored leaflets then disappeared into the bathroom to take a long, hot shower. The scent of Emma’s body, fresh and undeniably female, still lingered in the bathroom air. He turned the water as hot as it would go, filling the bathroom with steam in an attempt to sweat Emma’s female scent from the air.
He stood naked before the mirror over the sink. His body still looked tight and to be in good shape. His calves were well-defined, his chest broad and masculine and sprouting a vague T of hair at the upper portion of his chest. His waist was narrow and pale—much paler than the rest of him, which was mostly tanned and naturally dark—and his shoulders came out like twin hubs, strong, tanned, and only vaguely pimpled. His arms were not big or overly muscular, but they were certainly good, healthy-looking arms…except, of course, for his right arm, beginning just at the elbow and tracing down the length of his arm to the wrist of his right hand, his palm, and the front and back of his hand. His fingers, too. Tracing down. It wasn’t the arm that was so bad and the arm itself never bothered him. Cosmetics meant nothing to him. There was a deep, puckered, raw-looking tract of pink skin running from the crook of his elbow down to the center of his palm where it dispersed in an eruption of jagged, pink tributaries, the discolored flesh startlingly in evidence, nearly obscene, against the dark pitch of his natural flesh-tone. The scar was not very wide, but it was long and it was visible. But that was all, and the arm itself was not necessarily bad. The hand, though, was not pretty and was not—and never would be—the same. It was not good.
He held it up now and looked at it, holding it far enough away from his face to not truly see everything about it. The last two fingers were misshapen. The soft and tender flesh of his palm was a corrupt and inhospitable terrain, marred by jagged flecks of poorly-healed flesh and bisected by the crooked, railroad track scar that originated at his elbow. Likewise, the back of his hand was ridged with scars, like large ball bearings
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