Page 6

Back to the pancakes. Mine are done, and hers are in the pan, sizzling away pleasantly. My headiness relents enough for me to enjoy the cheap delight of the smell of batter and grease. Mine's bigger; that's usual. Jill eats more when I make hers smaller; maybe the size intimidates her stomach. I work with what I know, and go from there. Mine breaks in half when I put it on a plate for me.

I dole out the pancakes, not particularly paying attention, I give her mine. She's just as observant: she takes a giant bite, with one of my over-sized forks I'd picked up from somewhere up north, a gleeful smile on her thin-lipped face. It takes me a moment to notice the look on her face, and register that she's not breathing right: wheezing, rasping, breath whispering less and less. I look at her too late: her face is going blue, her fingers claw at her throat, less and less energetically. With weak fingertips, I join her in massaging her throat. She slips out of my hands, and the chair, and hits the floor with a metal-scratching-linoleum thud. I stand beside her, standing over her, blinking. I'm still too out of it to decide what happened just now. Her eyes look up at me, glassy, stunned & scared.

Oh right, she's allergic to blackberries. That's why she picked them out.

It's too late; I try the Heimlich (flop flop flop), CPR.. but all in vain. She's gone. I want to feel bad, maybe even cry for my pseudo-stepchild. Men aren't supposed to cry, but maybe just now I feel like a sissy bitch over my sudden loss. I could get away with some sissy-bitch crying just now, now that I'm alone in this godforsaken apartment.

Poor little Jill; poor puffy-faced nymph. I don't know what to do with you now... I think to myself, wandering in my head. I sit beside her on the floor, her head lolling in my arms, body cradled between my legs. I could leave her on the street. I could leave her in an alley, behind a bar, maybe.  Well, maybe not a bar. Every one of them knows me; should I get spotted, I'm fucked. I could leave her here, and run away to Mexico. I could ditch her at the railroad.

Jill ends up finding a temporary home in the cab of an abandoned red Chevy, in the apartment parking lot. I leave her there, knowing full well that someone will peer in the windows, spot her lying in the seats, and call the cops. The whole apartment building will be investigated. Maybe even Channel 10 QYPB News will show up. I almost wave, as I walk away, remembering belatedly that she's past those kind of pleasantries.

Poor allergenic, achy-breaky Jill...

Yes. Poor Jill. Ah, but whyyy do I still feel drunk? It interferes with logic, and my need to mourn. Feeling as I do, the one logical thought that comes to me is: I have to find Jimmy Delongue, and ask if he spiked my drinks while I was over this weekend. Where'd Sheila say he was? Her place? Sure. I know where that is; it's a great place to start. Her place is only a couple of blocks away, so I decide to leave my car in the parking lot, lest I ram a tree in the middle of this mission. So, with the pancakes and the murder scene still resting in my apartment, I wander down the street, with a swagger that only inebriation brings.

Goodbye, Jill.
Yes, goodbye...