Page 72 of Wicked Design
On the night in question, he phoned saying he’d be delayed for a few minutes then arrived an hour later than he’d promised.
Clover forced herself to hold her tongue and be reasonable.
During their meal, his phone kept ringing.
He looked at the display. “Sorry, I have to take this.” He turned to the side and spoke to Portia, or Shell, or whoever couldn’t wait for him to call them back.
Clover picked at her meal. He ate in between his conversations with the others, cleaning his plate, his appetite healthy.
By the time his phone quieted, she didn’t dare open her mouth, afraid she’d really let him have it, in a public place no less. Since that wasn’t her style, she endured, holding everything in for when they got back to her apartment.
“This is nice, huh?” He squeezed her hand and glanced around the room adorned with lanterns, brightly colored blankets, and other Spanish-style decorations. “Ready for dessert?”
“Sure. How was your day?” Even when he hadn’t been on the phone tonight, he’d never mentioned his work or his ideas for new paintings. Something they always discussed, along with her jewelry designs, giving equal attention to both. “Good, bad, indifferent?”
“Actually, pretty damn great. Got a fifty dollar tip from a biker for a design a grade schooler could have done, not that I’m complaining. He’s paid for our dinner tonight and my lunch tomorrow, too. Think I’ll get something from here.” Grinning, Van Gogh motioned for the server and ordered their favorite pastries.
As the young man left, Clover finished her beer and waited for Van Gogh to ask about her day.
He gobbled chips and salsa.
His phone dinged. A text. He glanced at it and texted back. The interaction went on clear through dessert and him paying the bill.
Once at her door, she’d already prepared what she wanted to say about deserving his undivided attention when they were together, the same as she gave him.
He trailed her inside and made a beeline for the bed. “Mind if I lie down for a few minutes? I’m kind of beat.” He sank to the mattress. “If I’m not up in five, hit me with your hammer.”
Laughing, he closed his eyes then stilled, fast asleep.
She lost her courage to wake him and say how she felt: ignored, dismissed, unimportant. Most couples had to be married for decades before wives felt as she did. Hanging on to what little pride she had left, she worked on her jewelry until her eyes grew gritty then lay next to him but didn’t touch. She was light-years from wanting to be intimate.
When morning came, he’d already left for the parlor. Nothing changed, and it was her fault. Rather than telling him she wanted to talk, she’d waited for the perfect opportunity to set things straight between them.
The opportunity never came.
In the following weeks he either postponed their times together or sent a text telling her he’d arrive late.
His unending delays gave her too much time to finish her Clover Cuffs. When he finally did drop by for a quick kiss and to deliver a meal he couldn’t stay to eat, he didn’t notice her designs on the table.
Not once did he mention her special tat.
