My Lovely Wife(34)

She put her hand against my cheek. “Promise.”

“I promise.”





Twenty-two




Automatic coffee machines are one of the most convenient inventions ever. No baristas, no full-fat milk instead of 2 percent, no missing extra flavor shot. All I have to do is make my selections, choose the type of coffee, milk, flavor, and even the temperature, then hit the green GO button. Out comes my coffee. And it’s cheap.

The downside is that these elaborate but simple machines are available only at gas station convenience stores. Real coffee shops don’t have self-serve machines.

My favorite machine is at the EZ-Go store and gas station two miles from the Oaks. Even if I don’t have the time, I go anyway. The cashier is a nice young woman named Jessica; she’s the type who always smiles and has a nice word for everyone. Maybe she is part of why I drive the two miles to the EZ-Go. The point is, EZ-Go is part of my regular routine. And everyone has a routine.

Annabelle certainly does.

Every Wednesday night, she and her parents eat at the same Italian restaurant. My guess is that they order the same food, the same drinks, maybe even the same dessert. Dinner starts at six thirty and ends by eight. Annabelle walks, and it takes her eleven minutes to walk from the restaurant to her apartment, unless she stops at a store, gets a phone call, or runs into someone she knows. Like me.

While Annabelle is looking at her phone, I bump right into her.

She looks up at me in surprise. Then, recognition.

“Hi there,” she says.

She is wearing more makeup than she does during the day. Her lipstick is darker, eyes outlined. Her short, cropped hair makes her face look even more attractive.

I take out my phone.

Well if it isn’t the nicest meter maid in town ?

She rolls her eyes. “How are you?”

I nod and point to her.

She gives me the thumbs-up.

What are you doing out alone? Don’t you know there’s serial killer on the loose?

She smiles as she reads it. “I’m headed home right now.”

Care for a drink first?

She hesitates.

I point to a bar down the street.

Annabelle looks at her watch. I am surprised when she says yes. She should say no, especially with the whole Owen Oliver thing, but Annabelle is even lonelier than I thought.



* * *



? ? ?

The bartender, Eric, greets me with a wave. I have been here several times, always alone, always waiting for Annabelle to walk by on her way home from dinner with her parents. Eric knows me as Tobias. I taught him all the sign language I know. He can spell out my name and my drink, gin and tonic.

Annabelle orders the same. “Heavy on the tonic,” she says.

She does not trust me, and I do not blame her. I am just a guy who begged her not to give me a ticket. A probably very nice, nonthreatening deaf guy.

“So you know him?” Annabelle speaks to Eric while pointing at me.

“Sure, I know him. Tobias is a light drinker and a big tipper. He doesn’t say much, though.” He winks, letting her know he is kidding.

She laughs, and it is a nice sound. I start to picture being in bed with her. This makes me wonder how long it will take before she asks me to her place. I already know she will, and I know her place is not far. The power of knowing so much and choosing what will happen next—this is what I like.

“You’re a tag team,” she says, motioning to Eric and me. Annabelle is careful to face me when she speaks. She does not forget I am deaf.

After the first sip or two of our drinks, Eric fades to the other end of the bar. It is just Annabelle and me, and she tells me many of the things I know and some I don’t. For example, I did not know that she had linguine with mushrooms tonight. But now I know this is what she eats on Wednesday nights.

I tell her my Tobias story. I am an accountant, divorced, no kids. I loved my wife very much, but we met in high school and married too soon. It happens.

Annabelle is a good listener and nods in all the right places.

What about you? Boyfriend?

She shakes her head. “I haven’t had a boyfriend in a while.”

I know it won’t be long now. I expect that invite will come after drink number two and before number three.

Why don’t you have a boyfriend?

The question is not just conversation. I am genuinely curious.

Annabelle shrugs. “I haven’t met anyone?”

I shake my head.

Too generic.

It takes her a minute. I assume she is about to tell me her last boyfriend was an asshole. He cheated on her. He was always out with the guys. He was a selfish prick.

“My last boyfriend was killed,” she says.

The shock almost makes me speak out loud.

That’s horrible. How did it happen?

“Drunk driver.”

I vaguely remember that Annabelle had posted something online about a fund-raiser against drunk driving. There was no indication it was personal.

I ask her more about him. His name was Ben, and Annabelle had met him through work. Ben had been a cop. He took night classes in criminal justice and wanted to work his way up to detective, then sergeant.

She no longer keeps his picture on her phone, because she didn’t think it was healthy to stare at it.

This statement is so sad that I have to look away.