Brenda Loring was far too small for the overstuffed capacious couch. She appeared uncomfortably absorbed by the cushions, hardly consoled. At first glance, she looked swallowed by the plush off white arms. It could be assumed that her body had found a semblance of solace, but the truth was that there really weren’t any sacred places to turn for comfort; the fluffed up cotton squares were far too affectionate and they consumed her behind their good intentions, providing only a pretense of succor.
Brenda sat up straight and reached for her glass; next was the cigarette. Comfort was better found in a nicotine binge and a scotch devoid of ice or water.
Brock was still not sure if he should believe her, even though she’d been insisting for months. “I’m not hallucinating,” she kept repeating. “I know what the hell I’m talking about. It’s all going to hell.”
His thoughts raced ahead as he watched her light the tip of her cigarette with a lit butt from an old dish with more ash than a crematory.
Brenda was birdlike but hardly unattractive, just sticky and twiggy, unlike his wife, who was a full hug, an eye level kiss. Brenda took a deep drag and looked at him through smoke.
“What a fuck,” she said. “Both of them. They are both fucks, I’m telling you. Devon has bought Glen off, paid him well to screw us over, though I don’t know why he would, disloyal asshole.”
“It’s hard to believe, can’t wrap my head around it, that’s all.”
Brenda leaned forward and crossed her tiny legs, shapely but thin. Her fingers seemed as long as arms, her elbows stuck out like wayward bones.
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