Intimate Relations, Rebecca Forster [best ereader for manga .txt] 📗

was going to have nightmares after seeing her in the shadows. The other one said he wouldn't mind getting locked in the closet with her. The first one said the other man was sick. The second laughed as if there was something funny about all this.

Emi was happy that Enver had not heard this exchange. Even she, for whom the companions had long ceased to hold any allure, was angered by the men's attitudes. There was no recognition of the art only of the prurient thing the art represented. The officers closed and locked the door. They returned the key. They had no idea what they were looking for much less what they were looking at.

All these things were in Emi's brain, but she would not speak of them. Instead, she opened her mouth to chatter as she normally would, but Enver spoke first.

"You should go to bed now. Finish in the morning."

"I'm fine," Emi said. "I'll wait for you."

Emi tightened a screw, and lay a skin over it. She ran her finger down the appendage to see if the new screw could be felt through the skin. It was as smooth as silk. Her hands were steady. That was a good thing.

"Go downstairs," Enver said.

His wife straightened, no longer hunched over her work, and looked at him.  He had not raised his voice, but she had heard something different. His rage had shaken him more than the meeting with the police. His anger frightened him more than the blood on his shirt, more than the dead woman. All of it had come as no surprise to Emi. His emotion was a long time coming, and now she wasn't sure what ground she stood upon. She started to object, but thought better of it.

"Alright."

She put aside her tools, and left the leg on the table, careful not to change the angle of the ankle. She could pick up the work in the morning without having to readjust it. Emi slid off her stool and unbuttoned her smock. She put it on the hook where it had hung since the moment they had moved into this space.

"Shall I leave you coffee downstairs?"

He shook his head. She hesitated, casting about for something she could comment on to engage her husband. Before she could find it, he stood to his full height, and put his paint brush down. To Emi's surprise, he took her in his arms. His embrace was not warm. He was not in need of her comfort or her counsel. This was a gesture of partnership, of understanding, of resignation, and solidarity. It implied a promise not a conspiracy.

"We'll see the lawyer and find out what we must expect. We have rights," he said.

Emi nodded. Her cheek moved against a chest that felt hollow. Emi knew she should accept what he had to give; she knew better than to push her husband. And yet she couldn't help herself. The words came out .

"We need to talk about her."

"No, no need. It's done. I am sorry, but it's done."

"No," Emi said. "But...she..."

Enver let her go, and returned to his work. His big hands picked up the small brush, the bristles of which were no thicker than an eyelash.

"Enver." Emi put her hands on his back.

He shook his head. Emi patted his back. He shook his head again, but harder than the first time. She made fists and pounded on his back.

"What about when he comes back," Emi said.

"He won't." Enver shook her off.

"He will." Emi heard her voice rise and felt her fists pound harder. She could never hurt Enver, and yet she was striking him. "You would. He will. They will find out what she did, what you did."

Enver turned on her, and grabbed her wrists. He said nothing. Her words hung between them. It was too soon for him to think clearly, but at least he had made a plan. They would talk to a lawyer.  It didn't matter what they felt, only what they could do.

"Enver?" Emi said, the question a plea for his attention.

Enver let her go, turned away, and continued his work. Emi stood behind him, watching for a moment as he added a touch of pale blue to the brown eye just near the iris. Enver knew when his wife left the room, but he gave no notice. Instead, he considered the face he was creating. It was, indeed, beautiful, but the companion would never be all it could. Not this one, not any other one from this time on, and that was sad.

Enver put down the paintbrush, picked up a rag, and wiped his hands until they were very clean. Then he washed his hands and dried them. He was tired, but he couldn't bring himself to go to Emi. Before he went to sleep, though, before he turned out the light, he would check on her. He would reassure her that everything would be all right. He walked through the workroom and down the first flight of stairs. The last thing he wanted was her to be afraid, because he was afraid enough for them both.

16

The last time Cori drove to Newport Beach was when she and Amber had a girls day out. The plan was to treat themselves to a fancy lunch and buy the cheapest thing at an expensive store.  After that, they would head home to giggle about how the other half lived. Things didn't turn out quite as planned. The clothes and food were way overpriced, and the women overly thin, blonde, rich, and arrogant. Cori got tired of their side-eyes that marked Cori and her daughter as interlopers, but for Amber's sake Cori ignored the slights. Eager to make a commission, the sales ladies didn't care if Cori's wallet was overly stretched. She bought Amber a T-shirt. It cost a half days wages; the fancy burger lunch cost her the other half.

Still, the experience was not lost on Cori's daughter. Amber came away with a new