CloseT ~~~~ Part Six

I could feel her conscientious steps as she neared the closet. I finally completely silenced my phone as I fumbled inside my coat pocket, my labored breaths clamoured as they exited through my lips. I folded my lips tightly and clenched my eyes. I mulled over his words, always keep the gun in the Balenciaga box. Her shadow separated through the vertical dividers, the light inside the closet beamed throughout the enclosed space. The breeze entered as the doors unfastened.

I stood against the wall, my feet touched one another as a rested pair of shoes would, the boots I had worn camouflaged beside the others. The lump in my throat heavy and dry. She smelled like rum. I could feel the presence of her body only inches away. She listened. Her presence disturbing. The convulsion of my pulse tallied with my controlled breaths, my heart strummed to its new tune. A cascade of tears streamed her cheeks while she studied the closet shelf, her contrived demeanor yet suspicious, however, she focused on the shelf and reached for a box.

I held my breath.

His scent lingered on her body, the ambiance was nostalgic. His distinctive after sex smell, sometimes pungent. His sex drive volatile. I hadn't known her tolerance, were her shoulders slumped due to the Xanax, her steps graceless and uncoordinated due to the rum? Her etiquette was now obsolete, her home now the sanctuary for her bona fide being. Underneath the designer coats and Manolo Blahnik boots she was equivalent, she was unembellished. Was she congenial with her character? Or was she malcontent with the woman she had sanctioned him to design. Had she felt contrite about his acquaintance. How had she known him...how long had she been his inamorata? The child, was she a mistake? As she pondered, I cognitively asked.

She seized the box and removed its lid. Soon, the phone she removed powered on. 'U must have just went dead,' she said. 'Did u call?'

She scrolled the missed call log. The closet door remained ajar as she rested on the foot of the bed. She swayed while she focused. I watched as the saliva filled her mouth. She laid the phone down and ran toward the bathroom, she vomited intensely and cried in pain. 'Why wont they stay down'! she screamed.

It was now 10:47. I looked at the lit screen in my pocket, Lamont had called 3 times. He would soon text. I thought about my car at the restaurant, I need to get to it quickly. The water forcefully began to run, she gargled. I knew what he had seen in her. Now was my chance. As I moved from in between the closely hanged suits the wire hangers slid on the metal rod. The water stopped. The light in the bathroom went off as she quickly emerged, alert. She scoured the room as she held her stomach. After a moment of swaying and trying to balance her feeble legs she turned the light back on and ran to the toilet again. The phone on the bed vibrated, without giving it any thought I cautiously came out of the closet, and picked it up, 'Mandel' it read. I put it in my pocket. I could see her in the mirror. Something prevented me from leaving out of the room, I felt a need for revenge. I glanced at the monogrammed pillows. Veronica Creighton. Lamont Dewayne Creighton. They smiled big on their wedding picture, her gown designed by Stella McCartney, the beaded waistband was her signature. Her belly protruded, her nose was enlarged. At that moment I hadn't given a shit if she came from the bathroom to find me in her bedroom. Monster. He gazed at her with uncontrolled emotion, she smiled at him with enamored lust. His wedding party had been his brothers, her bridesmaid, his sister. Who was she? Why had I not known who she was? Where was I? Was the child she carried older than ten years? Were there two? My tears dripped on the picture glass and saturated into the white silk frame. I laid it face down before leaving the room.

The text message had been on the screen for 6 minutes.

'No backing out this time, after 6:00 Friday he will only be a memory,' it had read.

The tempo...

The drum roll.

It's steady and rapid strum merged into a loud slow and repetitive beat, the cymbals joined. Staunch I stood toward the audience. The sounds rumbled through the substance of my cognizance, quintessential to my newfound perspective. I was married to a bigamist. His truths surfaced, they had been retained in my perception...the drumsticks striking silently against its skin. His selection energetic, his effort intense. But his tune now unheard.