Free Crime & Counterpoint by M.S. Daniel

forward, head high, chest out like a show poodle.
    He spun around. “Jesus! Carrie!” he growled. “Don’t you know how to knock?”
    She grinned. “I would’ve, pumpkin, except I know you too well.” A short lyrical laugh accompanied her words. She sailed to the windows and gave a hard yank to the cord, drawing up the blinds in full. The Lower East Side cityscape appeared in glittering afternoon glory, sun striking the pinnacles of glossy office buildings.
    Zach threw up a wrapped fist to shield his face, grimacing and scowling like each flare was a stab to his side. “What’re you doing?”
    She flicked a hand towards him. “Don’t mind me. You keep going. I’ll just state my business and then leave.”
    Grudgingly, he sighed and went to his room to grab a shirt.
    “Oh, don’t get dressed on my account,” Carrie teased in far too good of a mood. She perched on the back of his beaten leather sofa while she waited for him, letting her feet dangle. She looked around. No dishes in the sink. Multiple rings on the coffee table. Dusty mantle. Smeared windows. Everything grey, black, or brown. Ugh!
    She craned her neck around. There were folders and papers strewn in a callous mess, dribbling from the seat cushions down to the floor. She picked up one sheet, scanning it without processing the profile of the criminal. His face was unappealing. So she tossed it and called out: “Hey, do you have your Heisman on hand, by any chance?”
    Zach returned in a heather grey NYPD T-shirt with navy lettering and scowled at her as he strode across the wooden floor. “No. I don’t.” He got in position again and resumed throwing power-packed blows at the inanimate Everlast bag. “Thanks for the reminder though.”
    “You didn’t, like, get rid of it, did you?” she pressed, now digging out her cell phone.
    “Why the hell would I get rid of something that’s basically catching dust in a storage unit?”
    Carrie’s slight shoulders lowered with a huff. “Oh, my God,” she moaned. “It’s a freaking Heisman. There’s like” – she lifted her hands – “I don’t know, sixty guys in the whole country that have one.”
    He wasn’t about to give her the exact number though he knew it. “Why are you so damn interested all of a sudden? You never cared before.”
    “Because digging up history in the family is taboo or something, and I’ve been in Stanford the last decade. But Jared brought it up with the guys, and he was, like, I don’t know, proud that you’re going to be in his family.”
    “I’m not marrying him.”
    She clenched her fist, the one containing her smartphone. “Grrr. You are so frustrating!” she exclaimed, sliding off and marched over to him. “I’m trying to connect with you, and you’re” – she hit the bag fitfully – “more interested in this stupid thing!” She shook out her now-throbbing hand.
    Directing his agitation towards the inanimate object, he said, “Is this what you came to do? Annoy me?”
    She stomped her foot childishly, her blue eyes which were a happier variant of his, flashed in displeasure. “Okay. I’ll get to it since you’re sooo busy. I scheduled a fitting for you at Bloomingdale’s tomorrow at ten.”
    “I already have a suit.”
    She tipped her mouth sardonically. “I know you do, honey child, but I really need to make sure you look as good as possible because” – she looked to the ceiling, pretending to think – “hmm, why again?” She glared at him: “Oh yeah! It’s my wedding !”
    He flinched a little but didn’t stop exercising his volatilities, sweat trickling down the bridge of his nose and clumping his hair. Even his shirt started to catch the fever, tacking to his torso already. “Bloomingdale’s. 10 a.m. Can you go now?”
    “Gee! You’re just so charming,” she said derisively. “No, no, no, please . Don’t stop. I’ll just crawl back the way I came.” She started backing towards the door. “But I’ll see you at the