Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

“Scott, you’re a good lover. That has nothing to do with it.”

“I know I’m kind of a slob, but when we get married, we’ll get a maid. You won’t have to pick up after me.”

“We’re not getting married, Scott.”

“Why not? What did I do? I thought we were such a perfect couple. Everyone said so. Hell, my mother even likes you and she’s hated all my girlfriends.”

“Scott, I can’t take much more of this. It has nothing to do with you or your mother or your friends. It’s over. That’s all.”

“Is it because I never said ‘I love you’? I do, more than anything. I’ll say it over and over again, ten times a day. I love you I love you I love you.”

“I love you, too, Scott.”

“But not that way,” his tone turning sarcastic, nasty. “You fell out of love with me. Is that it?”

“Stop badgering me. It’s over, that’s all.”

“Because of a dream?”

“I know you don’t understand, but I can’t be with you.”

“It isn’t fair. I can compete with another man, I can change my habits, I can read sex manuals, but I can’t compete with a dream. I know you’ve got that Rules book that tells you to play hard to get, but this is ridiculous.”

“I’m not playing hard to get, Scott.”

“But why?”

Sometimes she wondered if she had been unfair to Scott, parsimonious in her explanation. But how could she explain something she didn’t fully understand herself? She had no words to describe the painful terror of her revelation, a darkness as piercing as the sun, a reverberating emptiness that left her aimless and de-pressed. It was better, she decided, to be ruthless, to cut him off cleanly, irrevocably, to catapult him from her orbit like an unwanted satellite. She felt she needed to do this to save herself.

Laura read in a pamphlet that one of her friends gave her that she should alter her routine so she would be less predictable, less vulnerable. So she drove a different way to work, shopped at a different supermarket, used different ATMs, came home at different hours. She signed up for a class in self-defense. She disliked it at first, the punching and thrusting. It seemed so mean. During the first class she cried and felt horribly embarrassed until the instructor said it happened to lots of women. They weren’t used to striking out, he explained. She skipped the second session. It took her two weeks to gather the courage to go back.

Scott was sure she was seeing someone else. After all, that was the most reasonable explanation for why she broke up with him, wasn’t it? But why didn’t she simply tell him? He couldn’t imagine her liking anyone more than him, but he thought he’d be able to accept a rival. At least there’d be someone to hate.

So he followed her.

He couldn’t figure out why she was driving all the way into Venice to go shopping, or to Culver City to use the bank, or to the Powerhouse Gym that was almost in Westwood. Was that where she met her new boyfriend?

On Wednesday nights she drove to a studio on Washington Boulevard and got out of her car with a sketchbook. Since when was she into art? She was a dancer. Dancers don’t have talent, not creative talent like that. He became convinced that was where she met her lover.

He watched closely as she came out of the studio, but she didn’t talk to anyone. None of the guys who came out looked her type. In fact, the class was almost all middle-aged women, a couple of real old guys who probably got off on seeing naked models, and some punk kids he figured were digital animators. It had to be the teacher, then.

So he waited.

The teacher came out of the studio fifteen minutes after the last student. As soon as he leaned over to lock the door, Scott knew it was him, the mystery lover. So she was doing an artist. Not even an artist, an art teacher, which meant he didn’t have enough talent to make it as an artist. He was tall and thin with long blond hair. He wore black jeans, a black leather jacket, and cowboy boots. When he got on a motorcycle, Scott snorted in disgust. Figures she’d fall for someone like that.

A nasty, itchy rage ripped across his chest like a brush fire. He followed the bike up Fairfax — he couldn’t help himself — then to Crescent Heights, across Sunset up into the Hollywood Hills. He had to follow more closely than he wanted because the narrow road twisted as it climbed, but the artist didn’t seem to notice him. The bike turned into the driveway of a Frank Lloyd Wright knockoff on the top of the hill.

So she wanted a house. That must be the attraction. He cursed himself. Of course that’s why she dumped him. Every woman wants a house. He was a Realtor, for chrissake. He could’ve gotten her a house without even trying.