Un Malentendu

Note: It feels so good to post something again. If there are any mistakes, please let me know so I can fix them. Thank you for reading!

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Un Malentendu

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“This was a great meal,” he said, a smile resting coyly on his lips.

Inwardly, she cringed.

“It was.” She picked up her wineglass, staring off at the ivy growing along the walls of the Italian Restaurant instead of in his eyes. She wished they could have sat inside where it was warm, where there were people. Lips in a thin line, she took a drink, her maroon lipstick leaving behind a smudge.

He shifted in his seat, cleared his throat. “Elisa,” he began.

“What?”

“You’ve been seeming…distant.”

“Well,” she said curtly—then realized she didn’t know what to add to that. There were too many things to say that couldn’t be said because they were too personal. She scrunched her eyebrows together for a moment, looked at the lush topiary boarding the red bricks of the restaurant. The lights outlining the garden seemed blurred in her vision. She sniffed then looked down at her lap; she hadn’t felt this tired in a long time.

He reached over the table to touch her arm but she was able to withdraw before he could, though he still left behind a crack in her personal space.

“Henri,” she sighed when he recoiled in alarm. “I’m sorry, I—“

“What has been up with you lately?” There was just enough malice in his voice to make her eyes snap to his face, actually looking at him in the eyes for the first time on their date. Suddenly his soft features seemed a bit harsher on her brown eyes; his nose curved like a hook, his mouth set in stone, fingers tapping on the green wrought iron table as he waited for her answer.

She swallowed.

“Was it something I did?” he went on. “You will hardly speak to me.” He balled his fists. “You won’t let me touch you.” He cocked his head to the side, lowered his voice until it was a suggestion of remorse. “Tell me what I can do to fix that.”

Elisa didn’t bite the bait. She knew that Henri could charm the dirty secrets out of laundry. And maybe that was what scared her most about him—he could be persuading and if she wasn’t careful who knew what he could do to her. Touch her, grab her, French kiss her.

But how could she even begin to explain that she couldn’t handle being touched? She couldn’t stand the sensation of someone’s skin against her own, for she could feel every curve of the ridges on someone’s finger, or feel every one of the hairs on their arm brush against her own.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She could almost feel one of the spinach raviolis she ate making its way up her throat.

“Henri, I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

His eyes honed in on her and he inclined closer. “What?”

She reached up and scratched behind her neck, then twisted a wisp of her black hair that had escaped from the bun on her head. Keeping her eyes downcast to the colorful cobblestones under her red high heels, she said in a slightly panicky voice, “I don’t think I’m ready to continue our relationship.”

“Then why the hell did you agree to it in the first place?” He threw up his hands before bringing them down harshly on the table. Their empty plates and wine glasses rattled. She jumped, her hand flying to her mouth as she inhaled sharply.

“Henri!” She hoped that he’d had a little too much to drink because she had never seen his temper like this. “Calm down.”

He set his elbow firmly on the table and leaned forward enough to make Elisa scoot her chair back. “What did you see?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said—“ his voice was venom and Elisa knew that this couldn’t have been the Henri that said he would never harm her—“what did you see? Did someone tell you?”

She was completely dumbstruck. Her jaw opened and closed in attempt to say something, but she really didn’t know what to say other than, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She paused, her eyes narrowed in on his face. “Are you saying you cheated on me?”

Henri pushed his chair back; it threatened to tip over. He came over to Elisa’s side and she yelped. The glass walls of her personal space were fragile and Henri was pushing against them. He towered over her until he forced a pained smile on his face. He raised his hands invitingly. “I’m sorry, Elisa. Let’s just go home. I’ll pay.”

She noted the way he dodged her question but she didn’t quite care anyways. She could remember the times she thought she had seen him staring at other girls. She realized she hadn’t quite cared then either. Maybe she knew that they weren’t going to work out. Henri was a man who was all hands on, and she was strictly a no-hands-period type.

But still she remembered the day they had met and the way he had charmed her until she forgot all about how she had promised to never let a man enter her life in fear that he would turn out to be like her father: a man who touched her everywhere.

Her eyelids fluttered a bit. “Okay.”

Henri’s smile looked a bit less plastic. He took out his checkbook, wrote a few things down, and tore out the paper. She got up and followed him into the restaurant where he paid for their dinner; he held the door open for her, gestured for her to go first, then trailed behind her out to his car.

Her feet ached from her high heels and her black dress fit much too tight on her slightly sweaty skin. Henri opened the car door for her and she slide inside, leaning her head back against the headrest. She closed her eyes. Already she felt like she was about to fall asleep, having to force her eyes to open as Henri got in the car and backed out of the parking lot.

“You can drop me off at home.”

He gripped the steering wheel. “We need to talk.”

“Goddamn it, Henri. No we don’t.”

She sat up straighter in her seat as he turned onto an empty street before putting the car into park behind a vacant building. All at once, even through her growingly muddled mind, she grasped things she hadn’t noticed before: Henri had gotten a table outside so no one would see his outburst; he had ordered her glass of wine while she had used the restroom, opening a window of opportunity to slip something in her drink; and he had said they would take his car, not her car out to dinner. Just in case something happened.

Henri turned to face her. Shadows cast down from the streetlamp seemed all too fitting on his face. “Did you sneak into my house?”

Elisa couldn’t help by scoff at that. “Who the hell do you think I am? You seem more like the type to sneak into someone’s house, not me. What are you hiding?”

His hand shot out and grasped her arm, hard. She went rigid with nausea. “I swear, if you don’t tell me I’m going to gut you like a fish.”

Fumbling to unlock the car door but not quite being able to locate it, she said, “That sounds something like a murderer would say.”

She froze.

Henri’s grip moved from her arm to her neck in seconds. “You hit the bulls-eye on that one,” he grunted, working to keep Elisa in place as he reached under his seat and withdrew a gun. “I never knew what the hell was wrong with you, Elisa, but I heard that you had some daddy problems growing up.”

She couldn’t feel her lungs or breathe, though she could feel her veins bursting one by one beneath her purpling skin, making bruises. And even though she was fading, she could see the reflection in his eyes of all the other woman he had promised to never hurt; and they all had maggots crawling in and out of their skin.

“It’s funny. Police say that serial killers don’t like to use weapons, like this gun here—“he hefted it in his hand before pressing it against her temple—“because they like killing their victims up close. Even though I do enjoy that too, this suits me just fine.”

But Elisa couldn’t hear the gunshot or the blood splatter. She was asleep, thanks to the sedative that had been slipped into her glass of Sauvignon Blanc.