Connoisseurs of Memory (3)

I     II

III.  The Basement

Sharon’s chinchilla coat was twisted around her body in some strange fashion.  She held it closed with one hand and the other clutched the neck of the wine bottle.  I exhaled, noting that I could see my breath.  It was very cold down here.

“So we gotta deal, right?” she asked.

I smiled, and this time it reached my eyes.  “Of course, cousin.”  I extended my free hand so we could shake on it.  Our fingers were two inches apart.  Of course I could step closer and finalize the deal, but if Sharon elected to rise from her seat, she could easily take my hand.

She twisted and tried to stand, at which point I took two steps back.  Sharon looked at me as I put my empty wineglass on the floor.

Connoisseurs of Memory (2)

Part I

II.  Stroll

“Do you have any ideas in mind about the kind of boutique you would like to have?”

It was the right question to ask my fashionista acquaintance, as it would get Sharon to monologuing about her preferred subjects: clothing and herself, and not necessarily in that order, which was what I wanted.  If she busied her constricted memory banks with what I considered mindless chatter—if you’ll pardon the pun—then she would not notice exactly where we were headed. Fortunately, the topography was even and I did not need to concern myself with an incline causing a disruption in Sharon’s sloshed stylistic soliloquy.  I kept her focused with pointed queries about possible inventory and clientele, and of course, placated her with my offers of pecuniary and managerial support. 

Connoisseurs of Memory

I.  Donato Casbah

Very simply, I’d had enough of Sharon’s machinations.  I’d endured her many injuries for many years, as she was the child of my parents’ best friends; a "play-cousin," as it were.  I stopped caring the way play-cousins do decades ago and merely tolerated Sharon as was expected of me by my family.  And I, I would not have gone out of the way to hurt Mother and Father by any means whatsoever when they were alive.  All of Sharon’s slights over the years—imagined, she may think them to be—ranged from the very trivial to that of great effect; damage to my carefully constructed reputation.  I was born of two families of great strength; the Taniths and the Drakes, and I relied on that strength that kept me straight and unblinking as Sharon’s intrigues grew more and more devious.  Why she made sport of me I can’t say, other than jealousy…but over what?  She always had the nicer clothes, the better toys, the car at 16, the parties, the attention, the looks, the style, the grace, the flash, the bang…but why she made such great effort to undermine me I will never know.