Urge to Kill

Hettie reached over and ran the flat of her hand over cool sheet, then the cool pillowcase.

She felt a stab of loneliness, then of guilt.

One date. That had been all it had taken to get into her pants and beyond. What must he think of her?

If he thought of her at all.

She’d slept all night in the raw and was cool now. While the morning outside was warm, the air conditioner had been set on high and was running hard, winning its battle against summer. Hettie had goose bumps. She pulled the thin sheet up beneath her chin and stared at the ceiling.

Get up. Take a shower. Wash last night away.

In truth she remembered little about how he’d somehow talked her into bringing him to her apartment. Letting him stay, then sleeping with her. Or had she talked him into it?

They’d talked a while after arriving; she did have some recollection of that, snatches of memory. He’d been interested in her apartment, in the exercise area behind a folding screen in a corner of her bedroom. She remembered him effortlessly chinning himself a few times on the chinning bar. It was a collapsible piece of equipment, the bar set up firmly on a tubular steel frame, and would support much more weight than Hettie demanded of it. He’d been pretending to test the bar but really showing off for her. And he had plenty to show off. He was average-sized but extremely muscular, no stranger to working out.

About their lovemaking she remembered everything.

Or did she?

The smile that had started to form on her face faded. What wonderful things might she not be recalling?

Don’t be absurd.

The sheets still smelled of sex. Leave that behind you. New day.

But she didn’t want to forget everything about last night. That’s where the guilt crept in.

One cheap date!

She sat up in bed, and it was as if a headache had been waiting for her to make a move. It slammed her hard. The ache behind her eyes made her clench them shut.

Squinting, she climbed out of bed, felt the cool hardwood floor beneath her bare soles, and padded toward the bathroom.

Her gaze fell on her wristwatch on the corner of the dresser. Nine fifteen.

Jesus, what’s he done to me? He…?

She realized she still didn’t know his name. My God, what a whore!

At least he didn’t leave a wad of bills on the dresser. Not that I couldn’t use it…

A loud knocking on the door made her heart skip. Was he back?

Not likely. Ever. He got what he came for.

Hettie changed course, went back into the bedroom, and found her white terry-cloth robe. She slipped it on and tied the sash, then on the way to the apartment door ducked into the tiny bathroom and did what she could to rearrange her hair so she didn’t look like an escapee from Bedlam.

More knocking. Even louder.

She went to the door, peeked through the spy hole, and saw a man in a light-colored shirt cradling a long white box in his arm.

Leaving the chain on, she opened the door a few inches and peered out.

Big guy, dark mustache, a potato for a nose.

He smiled at her. “Flowers for Hettie Davis. That you?”

“It’s me.”

“Gonna open the door so I can deliver these, get you to sign for them?”

“Who are they from?”

“I don’t know.” He opened the box and held it so she could see inside. Pink roses. Lush and beautiful against soft white tissue. A dozen of them. “There’s a card, but it’s inside an envelope.” He shifted his weight and glanced at his watch. “Listen, lady, I don’t blame you for being scared. Hasn’t been that long ago a white florist’s box meant a dangerous killer to most of the women in New York. But I ain’t no serial killer. This is on the level, and I’ve got lots more deliveries.”

“Of course. Just a minute.” She closed the door, then went to where she kept tip money in the kitchen and got two one-dollar bills. She went back to the door and removed the chain, then opened the door.

These are from him. They must be!

She accepted the flowers and tipped the deliveryman, who gave her another smile and left, his descending footfalls clattering on the wooden stairs. As she closed and relocked her apartment door, she heard the street door down below whoosh open, then close.

After laying the box on the kitchen table, she opened it and fumbled to remove the small white envelope attached to a stem with a white ribbon tied in a bow. She opened the unsealed flap and withdrew the stiff white card, holding it to the light so she could make out the handwriting in dark blue ink.

Sorry I had to leave early.

Last night was too wonderful

not to repeat. I’ll call you soon

to see if you agree.

There was no signature.