Free The Next by Rafe Haze Page A

it. This was my idiotic jump into the rapids above Niagara Falls, hoping that Mr. Tall Dark & Handsome was Superman. But clinging to anything was a hope in and of itself, and wasn’t that better than not clinging to anything at all?
    Revising music in my present bog of bitterness was like pushing a stalled car to the nearest gas station. There was no downward slope to ease the strain or helpful pickup truck to give your bumper a nudge. You just pushed, one backbreaking step at a time, one drop of sweat after another. When I finally arrived at the station, I printed the damn six pages using the last ounce of ink left in the laser printer. In fact, the bottom half of the last page was already a faded grey. Yep, “Paralyzed” would be the last thing I printed for good long time. How fucking apropos. Sealing the envelope, I addressed it to Rebecca Stray, my agent. I opened the book of stamps only to discover it was empty.
    Saturday was the day Mrs. Abraham took her weekly stroll to the farmer’s market, and thus the day she made apple strudel. Just as I anticipated, she knocked on my door to retrieve last week’s casserole dish before her trip to Union Square and ask me if I wanted anything special. I looked at her blankly as she smiled her yellow toothy smile, Minnie in her arms yapping. I didn’t care one iota what she decided to make.
    “I’d love strawberry rhubarb,” I responded, trying to sound invested.
    “Oooh, that sounds nice. But it’s winter. I don’t think I can get strawberries or rhubarb.”
    “Aww,” I said, doing my best to be disappointed, “Then anything’ll be just fine.”
    I returned last week’s dish to her, smiled, and asked her if she would mind dropping this envelope off with the doorman in Rebecca’s building on Sixth Avenue near Union Square. It was basically on the way. Or it could be.
    I wondered if this was what a sociopath would feel like: adopting particular facial expressions and vocal tones with intellectual exactitude to hide his true agenda. I wondered if I would have to be this deliberate for the rest of my life.
    Was Mrs. Abraham completely unaware what an ungrateful prick lived in this apartment? Beyond her yellow-toothed smile, underneath one of three floral sundresses she owned, on the other side of her sparkly green eyes, did she see who I was? Would she continue to be so neighborly if she knew? I suddenly felt a deeper guilt as I realized the answer was yes. Mrs. Abraham would be this generous to me even if she’d learned I’d been a convicted baby killer.
    She accepted the package with an affirmative nod and a smile that said she was grateful for the opportunity to be of help.
    She was grateful to me!
    She lived alone like me and she suffered loss like me, but she radiated so much contrasting energy. She was a little old lady of unstoppable love, and that made me feel like a fucking monster.
    What was her secret?
    I closed the door as she slowly wobbled her way down the hall, Minnie yapping goodbye.
    Nap time…perchance not to dream…
    The arpeggios above stopped, followed by the irritated clunk of a wooded keyboard cover closing.
    It was six o’clock.
    I was sweating and needed a shower.
    As I was toweling my back, I heard a raspy moan from above.
    Oh my god, again?
    In the darkness, covered only in my towel, I peeked out of the window. Mr. Perfect was once again at the bedroom window. He steadily feasted his eyes on the window above mine. His engorged and upright dick protruded from his pressed five thousand dollar suit.
    He slowly undulated his hips, tightening and releasing his manhole. He released his dick and unbuckled his belt. His pants dropped to his ankles, revealing thick, muscular, hairy legs. His scrotum was full and round, and his pubic hair neatly trimmed to frame that long spitting cobra, cocked, splayed, and unhooded.
    The bastard was prepared tonight. He picked up a bottle of lube, squeezed the gel into his hand and greased his dick. The