The door to apartment 4C swung itself shut as a man walked briskly across the dinged wooden floor. “I’m home,” he announced flatly, throwing the wrinkled bundle of his overcoat on the kitchen table, dropping his hat squarely on top of it. He forced a dramatic sigh as he yanked his jacket off. His eyes settled upon the huddled mass in his bed, a slapdash mop of blond curls laid out over the pillow. “Asleep again, eh?” he smirked, hurling the jacket at her with a rowdy overhand throw. He stuck his fingers into the knot of his tie and wiggled them as he began walking to the washroom. “No work today. Thought I’d take a day off.” He plugged the sink and turned the tarnished silver knob marked with a fancy “C”. “I went to that new bar on the corner of Fifth and Whitney,” he shouted over the water, “Nice place.” His eyes suddenly darted up, frightened by movement above the sink. A man stared back at him, a weary gentleman on the last leg of his youth. His sullen blue eyes shot through him, disappoving, wary, perplexed. The man’s tobacco standed fingers came into view, covering his mouth to surpress a belch. “Excuse me,” he said, turning the water off, “I had too much to drink.” He ducked away from the mirror and put his face into his full, cupped hands, drenching him from his hairline to his collar. Standing up, he flicked his fingers at the smirking, dripping man in the mirror, watching the water spatter and bead on the surface. “I’m okay,” he said, patting his face with a towel, “Alcohol just upsets my stomach. You know that.” He swiched off the light and walked across the room. “ A sensitive stomach is a sign of good breeding, they say.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and absently ran his fingers though her hair while sifting though some letters on the bedside table. “This gal at the bar,” he mumbled through pursed lips, trying to light the bobbing end of his ciggerette, “Pretty thing. She kept buying me drinks. I was trying to be polite, didn’t want to turn her down.” He let out a stream of smoke in a sighing laugh. “She didn’t believe me when I told her my name was Tom Collins. I just told her it was a classy drink and my mother was a classy lady.” He smiled and rolled her over. Her eyes were lazily frozen half open. Blood dribbled from the left corner of her mouth. He chuckled as he wiped it away with his sleeve. “I think she was hoping I got tight enough to leave with her. I’d never do that to you, though.” He pushed her eyelids over her eyes and kissed them gently, before pressing his lips soundly on hers. Running his nose down her neck, he finally settled on her chest. Keeping his head buried in her breasts, his hands floated to his belt, his pants, his shorts, the line of buttons on his shirt, clumsly wreching and manipulating each until he was completely disrobed. Climbing into his bed, he pulled the girl close to him and retied the oozing bandage around her waist. He grabbed her wrist and stroked her hand over his chest and abdoman. “Oh, you like that?” he whispered, slowly moving her hand lower and lower. He placed it on the joint of his thights and pushed down. A moan rushed up from deep inside him before he could surpress it and resounded off the walls of the appartment.
“You okay?” someone shouted from outside.
“Yeah,” he replied, kicking the covers off him and gropeing the floor for his scattered clothes.
“Hurry up. We gotta get her outta here.”
He jumped back into his rumpled clothes. He grabbed the large butcher’s knife at the edge of the bed with one hand, while yanking her to the groud with the other. Kneeling over her, he cocked his head, his half upturned collar poking him in the face. “I’m sorry we were interupted. Hope to see you again someday.” He brought down the blade at the joint of her shoulder and watched the blood spatter and bead on the surface of his dinged wooden floor.