Entropy and Sorrow's Kiss

Burnett had watched rookies come and go long enough to understand that his grandfather's maxim applied to just about any profession, but it applied to cops with a vengeance.

And, Burnett understood now, it applied to marriages as well. Just when you thought you were comfortable in your marriage, just when you got to that place where everything felt good and right, you got cocky and fucked up. You said the wrong thing in a flurry of masculine insensitivity, and at just the wrong moment, or you were slow to compliment when you failed to heed the breaking shoals of feminine insecurity, or you saw a pair of legs that drove you wild – and wouldn't you know it – your wife was watching you.

And guess what? Time and time again, you chased those metaphorical legs. Every time you saw a great pair. You chased them like a dog chases it's own tail. He thought of Elaine and those pale gray stockings, and even now he felt a stiffening in his groin even as he recalled how spectacularly he'd crashed and burned because he simply couldn't commit himself to himself.

Cops and pilots seemed to fall off their respective wagons with alarming frequency, too, and Burnett understood the simple fact of hubris all too well as a result. He had developed his own little monument to infidelity, hadn't he? And yet he knew the foundations of his infidelities were crumbling, too, because he had learned something from his own pedantic musings. And besides, don't all monuments – in time – crumble and fall?

Burnett had tried the marriage thing and failed, he thought glumly as he looked out over the room. He thought of Debbie, the dark haired siren of those innocent, long-gone days. Debbie, who had felt like his soul mate, who dared to dream big dreams with him, who had betrayed him, and who he had betrayed. And then there had been Diane. Diane the dominatrix. Diane the death-stalked heretic, in search of redemption. Diane, the dark chalice of soul. Then there had been his brief fling with Carol, Carol the innocent month long interlude, Carol of the short skirt and long legs, Carol the flight attendant, Carol the nymphomaniac. She'd been everything Debbie never could have been, and everything he'd wanted Diane to be, and just when things looked like they couldn't get any better, just when he'd found out she had a thing for girls and groups, he'd found out she was still sleeping around with just about everyone in the city. They had split up a few weeks ago, and it wasn't too long before he learned from the county health department that Carol had tested positive for just about every STD known to medicine, including the biggie. He'd sweated bullets until his results came back negative, then he'd drifted through another deep funk, and once again dreams and nightmares flooded into his nights, each pouring in like yet another errant tide of broken dreams.

He found himself moving from the familiar routines of Diane's final weeks back into the shadowlands of uncertainty. Burnett decided to move to a new apartment, to change everything he could about the scenery of his life, hoping to avoid the endless parade of lonely nights he knew lay ahead, and he assumed time would resume its deadly march once again – only now he wasn't sure he wanted to keep up with the parade.

But at least, he thought, there would be new wallpaper to stare at. Surely that would be a good thing.

+++++

He was carrying another box of books up the apartment building's rickety metal stairs when he saw her.

Burnett looked across the open courtyard through the wrought-iron balcony above and saw the pink halter-top and black spandex shorts before he noticed anything else, and as he stepped out on the landing he took in the seven-inch spiked silver plastic platform sandals – and the sucker in the mouth – and he groaned inside. 'Oh crap, not a hooker...' he said under his breath as he smiled at the girl, she of the dark, insouciant eyes, the pouty, cum stained smile. She was not ten feet away, yet Burnett felt physically repelled by the mere presence of the girl, and he thought that, surely, he couldn't catch anything from her at this distance.

"You the new guy in Two D?" she asked as she tongued her sucker suggestively.

"Well, there's a rumor to that effect," Burnett said as he looked at the flaccid smile on the girl's pockmarked face, "but I'm not sure it's accurate. If I hear anything, I'll let you know."

"Yeah, whatever. Heard he's a cop." She licked her lips even more suggestively, as if she was hungry for something more than chit-chat.

"Is that a fact? I'll be damned. There goes the neighborhood." He ignored the stirring in his groin as he stood on the landing catching his breath; he simply looked at the girl and wondered what a piece of ass like hers went for these days. Ten bucks... twenty? Whatever the going rate was for a hit of crack or meth, he guessed. The longer he looked at the girl, the uglier she became, yet even in his revulsion he wanted to fuck her.

'It's hard being a guy,' he said to himself.

The girl looked at him knowingly then turned and walked away, but not before turning to flash him with a gray-toothed smile and to toss off a little doe-like waggle of her too fat butt. Burnett walked down the balcony toward his new apartment and tried to stifle the laugh he felt building in his gut, but the box full of books was beginning to feel more than a little too heavy – and he needed to take a leak. Then the door next to his opened and a short, frumpy looking woman in a white lab coat stepped out and inserted the key into the deadbolt and double-locked her door. She turned and jumped when she saw Burnett walking her way, then almost relaxed when she saw the box of books in his arms.

The woman had the perpetually down-turned lips that most unhappy people wear as a defense against having to reveal the least bit about themselves, and this woman's scowl was crowned with suspicious little pig–like eyes that swept across him like razor-sharp searchlights; to Burnett her eyes were full of fear and suspicion. As he looked at her, looked at those pale gray pin-pricks so studiously avoiding his gaze, he was left with the feeling that he had just looked into the loneliest place on earth. The woman darted past hurriedly and scuttled crab-like along the balcony, then disappeared down the rickety stairs before he could as much as say hello. Burnett shook his head as he walked through the clouds of too heavy perfume the pear–shaped woman left swirling in her wake.

Not promising, he said to himself as he put the box down beside the door. He fished out the key and opened the door, then picked up the box and walked inside. He dumped his books on the sofa and turned the air conditioning to MAX before walking over to the little 'fridge and taking out a beer. He tossed the longneck down in one long pull and wiped the sweat from his forehead to his shoulder, then got another beer out and slammed it down while he walked into the head. His heart hammered in his chest as he walked back to the window in the tiny living room that looked out on the balcony, and he pulled the cord to open the flimsy little curtain that covered the dirty window. He stood there for a moment watching a red bird taking seed from a little hanging feeder outside his window. The bird ate contentedly for a while, hopping from perch to perch to snag just the right bit of seed, then Burnett and the bird made eye contact. They stared at one other for God only knows how long, then a cat leapt from its hiding place in a nearby tree and landed on the balcony rail with the bird's neck in it's mouth. The cat shook the bird once viciously, then trod off down the balcony.

Shaken by the sight, Burnett put down his beer and walked out of the apartment, heading for his old BMW and one last box. The cat was sitting outside an open door, but as Burnett approached the cat fled into the safety of the darkness within.

Then he heard it. A man shouting, a woman's scream, breaking glass. Off duty or not, he was a cop – he turned and went back to his apartment and called dispatch, then clipped his badge and holster onto his belt and walked back toward the disturbance.

Another shout, another scream. Other tenants opening doors to check out the commotion. Burnett walked to the open door and looked in. The man was on top of the woman, kissing her passionately while he furiously worked to open his jeans; the woman's legs were wrapped around the man's back and she was clawing at the man, imploring him to hurry. Burnett reached in and shut the door, then walked back to his apartment. He called dispatch and told them what had happened, chuckled into the phone at the obvious rejoinder, then headed back down to his car.

His head clearing now, all he could think was that nothing on this earth was as it appeared to be anymore.

+++++

Burnett opened his car's trunk and reached in to pick up the last box when a car screeched into the parking lot. It accelerated heavily, then slid to a stop behind him. Burnett heard a window roll down, but he didn't need to turn around to know a patrol car was behind him.

"Hey, Big Al!" Burnett groaned when he heard O'Reilly's voice booming from inside the Ford. "So what's the deal?"

Now obvious that it wasn't going to go away, Burnett turned and looked at the graying red hair and impish face of "Crash" O'Reilly. "Oh, you know, couple up there getting a little rowdy in their hunka–chunka. Knocking shit off the tables, that kind of crap."

O'Reilly took on a faraway look as he said, "No, I don't know, man. I don't remember that kinda crap happenin', least not to me. Not in a coon's age, anyway. Can't say I ever did, for that matter. Wouldn't mind giving it a try, though."

Burnett laughed and nodded his head.

"Man, heard you gotta divorce. What's up with that?"

"That was a while ago, Crash, but, you know, irreconcilable differences will get you every time."

"Yeah. So I hear. Lose the house?"

Burnett looked at O'Reilly then looked away, not wanting to talk to the asshole but not wanting to go upstairs and face the emptiness, then the radio inside the patrol car squawked and came to his rescue...

"2115, are you 10–8?"

O'Reilly picked up the microphone. "2115, 10–4, go ahead."

Burnett listened with zero interest as O'Reilly wrote down the details of his next call on the little steno–pad strapped to his knee, then he stepped back as O'Reilly dropped the transmission into drive. "Seeya later, amigo. Gotta run." Burnett tapped the roof twice and the Ford slipped out of the parking lot and disappeared down the street, leaving Burnett alone with his discordant feelings once again. He turned and reached for the box in the trunk just as another car came into the lot and made for the empty space next to his.

A newish silver Honda Accord pulled into the space, and Burnett sucked in his breath when he took in the woman behind the wheel. Red hair, maybe a little on the blond side, nice profile, too. Her sunglasses a little on the big side, but nice earrings caught the afternoon light. Her door opened and a long stocking–clad leg slid out with assurance; the woman stood and stretched, let out a little sigh, then turned to lock her door.

Burnett was unaware he was staring at the woman until she turned and looked at him.

"Hello," Burnett stammered. He was conscious of sweat still running down his forehead and of the immediate need to take a shower – preferably a cold one he thought as he looked at the woman's legs – but more than anything else he knew he was making a terrible first impression.

"So, you in trouble with the police?" the woman said, confusing Burnett no little bit.

"Pardon me?" he said.

"I saw the police car leave, as I pulled in?"

"Oh. Friend of mine. Dropped by to say hi." The woman arched her left eyebrow and looked at Burnett sharply. "I'm with the department."

"The department?" the woman asked.

"I'm sorry, the Police Department. I'm Sergeant Burnett. Uh – Alan." Smooth, Burnett thought. Smooth as an overdose of laxative.

The woman walked over and held out her hand. "Tracy. Tracy Tomberlin. Nice to meet you, Alan. You moving in?"

"Yes Ma'am. Two–D."

"Ah. Next to Doc Canfield. The quiet quarters."

"How's that?"

"Oh, the Doc doesn't tolerate any noise after eight. Calls the cops, er, the police."

"Cops is fine, Ma'am. We're used to worse."

"I, uh, yes, I guess you are. Well, got much more to move in?"

"Nope. This is the last box. Good thing, too. My back's not enjoying this anymore."

The woman laughed, seemed to hesitate, then leaned in close. "So, how 'bout I cook up a steak or two, toss a salad. You interested?"

"Is that a trick question?" Burnett replied in his most intimidating police sergeant's voice. Then he chuckled. "Ma'am? Name the time and tell me what I can bring, and I'll be there."

"How 'bout eight? Three–A," she said, and before Burnett could answer she turned and walked through the courtyard to her mailbox. Burnett looked at her as she receded into shadow; 'absolutely glorious legs,' he said to himself as he watched her disappear, 'and the eyes of an angel.'

He lifted the box and bounded up the stairs two at a time, and after he was safely in his apartment he smiled, then jumped in the shower and scrubbed the days sweat off, taking care – as he always did – to run his fingers over the scar on his arm that Diane had patched up oh-so-long-ago. He whistled as he toweled himself off, then dressed before running down to the car and going to the liquor store for a decent bottle of wine. He was back and knocked on her door promptly at eight.

"It's open! Come on in!"

The smells hit him in the heart as he walked in, the broiling steak, the dry wholesomeness of roasting potatoes, the faintest tang of olive oil and tarragon vinegar in the air – lingering just under the scent of a fine perfume. This evening was the most unexpected thing to happen in a long time, and her voice hit Burnett hard, too. In fact, the whole scene took his breathe away.

He walked towards the kitchen and called out "Honey! I'm home!" and heard her laugh, and as the sound of her laughter crashed into his body, a wet warmth washed through his parched soul, and while he knew these were echoes of feelings he had given up hope of ever experiencing again – still, they felt so good. He felt a little like a teenager, and the feeling seemed to penetrate a part of his soul he had thought long been dead. He poked his head in the apartment's little kitchen and held out the bottle of wine he'd just bought. "I bring tidings of great joy!" he said as the full weight of her domesticity hit him.

"Splendid!" she said when she looked at the bottle. "All I had was a natty old Riesling. Never too good with steak, but I love 'em."

"Apples. Apples and cheese. Riesling can't be beat with those."

"Salads, too!"

"Yup. Can I help with anything?"

"Nope. Just sit you down out there. There's some cheese and stuff on the table. Now, shoo! Out!"

Burnett sat on the sofa and took a cracker, cut a slab of cheese and took a bite. Tracy came in carrying a hi–ball and put it down on the table, then pirouetted on five inch heels and glided sexily from the room, calling out "It's a Mojito, just in case anyone wants to know... Rum, mint, and the juice of a few precious flowers."

Again he watched her drift away into the shadows of other memories, again he watched the perfection of her form, again he felt overwhelmed at the sheer feminine presence of this woman. She was unreal, like from a dream from another era, and in a flash he saw her walking across wind-swept sands. He watched her feet as they left little marks in the sand as she walked towards him, he saw her arms reach out for him, for him alone, and he felt the soft warmth of a million distant suns falling...falling...inward...

He reached down and took a pull from the Mojito; the cool warmth ran through him until he felt fire in his belly. She'd made it strong, too strong. Why? Was she unsure of herself? How could anyone so gorgeous be unsure of herself?

Tracy Tomberlin? He'd heard the name before, but where? Something from...

"How's your drink?" he heard her ask from the kitchen. "Cold enough for you?"

"Yes, Ma'am, it's about perfect. Got a little kick to it, too, I reckon." He heard her laugh, then the oven door opening and closing. The room filled with the smell of baked bread, and soon his head was swimming – if not from the bread, then the rum.

"You know, Alan," she said – now poking her head around the kitchen wall – "if you call me Ma'am one more time you're going to get to do some dishes tonight!" She was smiling at him, and the warmth of her smile disarmed him completely.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Oh, piffle!" She laughed again and disappeared into the kitchen.

Burnett took another, much longer pull at the drink, and the warmth rushed through him like lava. He felt muscles in his shoulder loosening up and he leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes for a moment, then he felt himself drifting...drifting...

He felt the dream coming on again...

...a river, a snake, a fish... a cat with a dead red bird in it's mouth...

"Alan! Are you asleep?"

Burnett bolted upright and shook the cobwebs from his mind. "God, I'm sorry. I..."

"I, uh, listen Alan, if you're tired, we can do this some other time..."

He looked at her. She was hurt; it was written all over her face.

"Tracy. It's not what you think, just a long day and my shoulders are sore." He stood and looked in her eyes. There were tears there waiting to fall, tears he didn't understand, but he could tell they had been dammed up way too long.

"I...oh, well, Alan..." He watched a tear crest like a wave and fall down her cheek, and he took a finger and caught it.

"I want you to know one thing, Tracy. I feel so at ease here, at ease like I haven't felt for – well – I can't remember the last time I felt like this... and I think that rum hit me like a bomb!"

She put her finger to his lips and quieted him with a simple "Sh–h–h–h," then stood on her high-heeled toes and kissed him. It was a tentative kiss, a first kiss full of shyness and quiet grace, then she stepped back and returned to her kitchen.

Burnett tried to calm himself, tried to quell the fire in his groin, and he stood there in her little living room holding her shadow to his soul with all the strength he could find. Soon she emerged carrying plates loaded with steaks and potatoes; salad was already on the table, as were two glasses of deep red wine. He walked over and pulled her chair out, then sat across from her. A covey of little votive candles bathed the room in flickering light, and he marveled at the simple beauty of the gesture.

She watched him, apparently wanting him to take the first bite, so he cut into the steak and took the meat into his mouth. The flavors were subtle – lime, butter, salt and pepper, maybe the faintest hint of garlic – the overall flavor was sublime and he knew by the way she reacted as she watched his face that words weren't really necessary, but...

"Oh good lord... That's amazing..." He watched her smile – and only then did she take a bite. They ate silently for a while, though she was clearly enjoying the moment of her small triumph, then she took her wine and held it up to him. Burnett held his glass to hers...

"To friendships – old and new..." she said, "... may they bring joy to your heart whenever you think of them."

"To friendships old and new," Burnett said, and they clinked glasses in the glowing candlelight.

She smiled, yet Burnett sensed she was holding something back. Something important. A troubled frown crossed her face like storm clouds.

"What is it, Tracy?"

"I think... I think you knew my husband. Everett Tomberlin. He was..."