Finding Rene

*****

It was Saturday afternoon, eleven days after coming back from Belgium and the UK. It was hot and sweltering outside. Even the mosquitoes weren't buzzing. I was sitting on my Husqvarna ride-on lawn mower on the driveway, holding a beer can, contemplating the unruly lawn that really should have been cut two weeks ago while I was in Belgium. Not only had the lawn grown nearly out of control, seemingly, so did my life.

Mary Shelley was snoring on the garage floor next to the garbage bin.

I was thinking about how Rene Magritte and Laura's father managed to fuck my life around, even from beyond their graves. Everything I knew about myself, the confirmed bachelor, how I felt about women, what I thought about love and marriage, the trajectory that I thought my life was going through, what I thought sex was really about, absolutely everything was now somehow profoundly disturbed. The confidence that I had in life, in the affairs that surrounded me and in who I thought I was as a person, was suddenly dismantled and brought into sharp relief. My new reality was disquieting, almost unnerving.

I wondered if Magritte fucked up Laura's head, too. Her father certainly had.

I shook my head. It couldn't be, I rationalized. She was just too level headed. Sexually screwed up, yes, but still very strong mentally. Maybe she was over me before my plane took off.

Whatever inner tranquility I had was gone. I was torn. I was in love but at the same time so very, very alone.

And it all happened through a torrid little love affair that lasted—I had to think for a moment—sixty hours?

How could my heart be ripped apart so quickly?

I was a fucking mess.

I missed that little bum of hers, her twitching little chin, her snorting with laughter, her skinny black stocking high heeled leg stepping runway model like over the other leg, the way her body snapped up in orgasm, her chocolate cunt. Laura waving out the window with her tits exposed, "We love Rene Magritte." Walking backwards on the beach flapping her arm-wings, cocking her head, "Poly gets what Poly wants." Of me holding the purple rabbit in front of her as she turned super white. Even the thought of her naked on a toilet covered with shit and puke, crying.

An image of her face again, with grey eyes smiling, a slight twitch to the chin, filled my mind and lingered.

Fuck.

It was at that moment that I realized that I'd become a mouse. I wasn't a man. I was a mouse. Not even a rat. Just... a fucking mouse.

I swigged the last of my beer and threw the empty can towards the garbage bin in anger. The can took an unusual flight path and landed on Mary Shelley's head, startling her awake.

"Fuck, sorry, dog," I said to a nearly deaf dog who lifted her head and just stared back at me with a look that said, 'Why are you being so mean?'

What the fuck is wrong with me? I can't even have a relationship with an incontinent dog without fucking that up. I had my chance with Laura and I blew it.

I reached to turn the key on the lawn mower...my cell phone rang. Laura Berger, read the display.

My heart jumped out of my chest.

"Laura?" I barely managed to croak out.

"Bill. I love you and I miss you. Please, please listen to me."

I gulped.

"I love you, too, Laura and I miss you, too," I squeaked. My heart was pounding with anticipation and fear.

There was a pause. Maybe it was the satellite connection. Maybe it was apprehension on her part.

"I have good news for you Bill." Her voice was a little unsteady. I think she had practiced what she wanted to say.

"Oh?" I was sweating. Shaking.

"The MOMA in New York City have thirteen Magrittes in their collection."

"Oh?"

There was a silence. I didn't know what to say. I was frozen with fear.

"Bill, I'm not handling having my heart broken again too well." Her voice was clearly stressed with that statement.

I was stunned.

"Bill?"

I gulped.

I knew I only had one chance. My mind raced through all of the different scenarios that I'd imagined. I needed to think clearly and quickly.

"When can you get to New York, Laura?" I asked hesitantly.

I knew on its own that that was not going to solve things but just make them worse. I closed my eyes, hoping I was doing the right thing.

"Next weekend." Could I hear a little relief in her voice? She was breathing heavily.

I took a deep breath.

"Excellent," I almost squeaked. My heart was pounding, "But... but... I want you to come to Toronto afterwards."

She paused for a moment.

"Why?" Her voice was a little unsteady again.

"Because you need to meet with Annabel."

"Why?"

"You're going to a job interview."

"Huh?"

I paused.

"And one other thing. Seeing as you are a solicitor for real estate in London, can you bring a listing of small office spaces currently up for rent? Say a thousand square feet, twelve hundred at the most?"

She paused.

"Okay," she said clearly a little puzzled, "for which areas?"

"Just Blackheath."

*****

If this story tickled you, then please be so kind as to honor me with a high five. It's only a touch away.

Thanks, sincerely;

Eclare