Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

You telling me, he thought, immediately visioning Shirly lying naked on the studio couch, waiting for him. The thick auburn hair. The luscious white-skinned body, shaped to drive a man crazy. Willing, waiting. The wet red lips, the hot dark blue eyes, those hot little hands. The sly way of her, secret, laden with passionate treachery. A pure and simple sex-pot, but close-mouthed and careful — and always ready, anytime, anywhere. Eager. Urgent.

“Nick!” Grace’s voice was nasty. “I’ve been talking to you. The least you can do is listen.”

He whispered it softly. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“I was just saying, Shirl should be more careful, the way she acts. Running around the yard, the way she does. Well — exposing herself. She is my sister, and I want to help her get started again, the way her marriage went on the rocks, like that. But, you know, the Johnsons reported a prowler to the cops, just last week. And she’s always — well, just showing everything she’s got to everybody — every man that comes along. Runs out to the milk truck, like that. She won’t listen.” She paused, then said, “She’s just got too much of everything.”

“Sure. G’night.”

He lay there, waiting. The night was still and hot, a slow hot wind lifting lazily at the curtains, sliding across the bed, like a dry, hot dragon’s breath.

Suddenly, he knew she was asleep — or, starting to sleep. And he knew he still had to wait.

...thinking about last night, and the night before, and all the other nights. The wild hot nights on the studio couch with Shirly. And tonight, too — a thousand nights would never be enough. They would have to do something, but whenever he mentioned divorcing Grace, Shirly just laughed.

“You can have anything you want,” she would say softly. “I’m always ready, Nicky — always. But the edge will go away if we get married. You know that. This is what makes it so good!”

They were in the garage that time, standing in a corner by the work-bench. Shirly had on black shorts, and a thin white sweater. Grace was making the beds, her being that close made it all the more wonderful.

“See what I mean, Nicky? Oh, Nicky!”

And this was the time Grace had come into the garage. He had leaped around and stood with his back to her, searching for tools on the work-bench. Shirly’s shorts had been on the floor and he’d kicked them under the bench. Shirly had grabbed down a pair of old overalls from a nail on the wall. She sat on a tool box, holding the overalls across her lap, saying, “My goodness, Nick — these overalls are filthy. Just filthy!”

He convinced Grace he wanted them dirty, because he liked them that way. For all Grace knew, Shirly and he had just been gabbing while he was straightening the work bench.

Grace hadn’t suspected a thing.

He came awake, staring into the darkness. His wife was breathing deeply and evenly. He’d been asleep, for God’s sake! He’d slept. How long?

He listened. There was no sound, but the hot wind drawing through the windows.

He thought he heard a soft movement from the living room. Shirly. Knowing her, he was positive she’d be waiting.

He listened to Grace breathe. It was absolutely even and deep. She was asleep. Once she was asleep, it was difficult to wake her. It would be even better tonight, because she hadn’t gone to sleep early. She would sleep for a long time, hard.

He had to admit that all this strain was beginning to tell on him a little. This was the third time he’d fallen asleep, waiting for Grace to konk off. No wonder — every night in there on the studio couch. And sometimes during the day, too.

Thinking of Shirly got him going again.

He began to move toward the edge of the bed. Once he’d awakened Grace. If he did again, he could always say he was going to the bathroom. And he had every movement down to an art, worming slowly like a snake to the edge of the bed, without pulling at the sheet, without causing a sound.

He got one foot off the bed, braced on the floor. In a moment he was clear of the bed. He stood there in the moonlight, looking at his wife, listening to her breathe. She was really out cold tonight. He checked his watch on the dresser. Two-fifteen.

Late. But to the good, really. Once before it had been very late, and Shirly had fallen asleep. He had crept in beside her, and slowly awakened her the way she liked. What a night that had been. He began breathing a bit more rapidly, and moved carefully on bare feet toward the hall door.

Once in the hall, he stepped fast. He came through the dinette, turned through the archway into the living room.

There was no sound, but the slow hot wind out in the yard. The Australian pines moaned softly.