Free An Accidental Affair by Eric Jerome Dickey

red pen in a second article.
    Regina Baptiste, Angelina Jolie, Sarah Jessica Parker in three-way tie for Forbes highest paid actresses list at $30M
     
    I was richer than Mr. Holder, but he wanted to feel smarter than me, better than me. Ridicule was fueled by envy. Jealousy was fueled by hate. I knew people like him. They competed on all levels; small, meaningless victories validated self. He’d won that round.
    I took my .38, tucked it inside the small of my back, put on a USC jacket, picked up my Nikon, and went for a stroll. Outside, I took random photos of the beautiful ugliness.
    I was a stranger in a strange land, as foreign as the accents around me.
    After a twenty-minute stroll around no man’s land, I went back to my apartment and put my camera down next to Underwood. Then Iput a sheet of paper in Underwood and started typing. Fell into a lull, the rapid
click click click click click
of the old-fashioned keys calming my nerves, but not enough. My mind was on fire and I wanted that fire put out.
    Soon I was in my zone. The writer in me was the inner Chandler inside of me. Chandler was a master communicator. I’d run into a lot of self-proclaimed writers, screenwriters, and novelists, but not many effective communicators and wordsmiths. Most had never taken a typing class and I doubt if many had ever even owned a typewriter. Typewriters were heavy machinery and in the old days were good at keeping a lot of the hacks out of the business. Computers had invited everyone in and now the market was flooded with mediocrity.
    I was stirred from my reverie by a soft knock at my front door.
    I picked up the gun and moved across the carpet, easy steps, like I was a burglar.
    When I opened the door, on the other side stood Mrs. Patrice Evans.
    Her hair was down. She smelled freshly showered, and she wore a smile, a short black skirt, a dark CSULB hoodie with nothing underneath, sandals, and she held a box of condoms.

Chapter 7
     
    Mrs. Patrice Evans took fast breaths, eyes closed tight and mouth opened in the letter
O
. With each exhale she released powerful
ahhhhs
. Her approaching orgasm was strong. Five minutes removed from that moment, as heart rates slowed down and breathing smoothed out, Patrice frowned like she was upset, but her leg bounced like she was living in joy.
    “Ted had an allergy attack. I drove him to the emergency room at the Kaiser on Cadillac; got there around ten, and the doctor gave him a Benadryl shot in his ass. It knocked him the hell out. He looked like he had been hit by Tyson, a train, and a bill from the IRS. So I crept back.”
    “I needed this. But we’re going to have to talk about this Post-it thing.”
    “Turn the ceiling fan on and open a window. I’m suffocating. Never mind, I’ll do it.”
    She did, then pulled off her hoodie and kicked off her sandals before she took off her skirt. That was all she wore. She took a pillow and crawled inside my bed like she was settling in for a long stay. I went to the bathroom and took the condom off, then eased back in the bed.
    We rested in silence, fan blowing, our heads at opposite ends of the bed.
    I picked up my camera before turning on a small lamp that had a low wattage bulb.
    She was tipsy and naked. Breasts showing. I took photos of her as she trembled. She was in silhouette, her face impossible to make out, the act of sex apparent, this sin documented.
    I told her, “Chin down. Eyes up. Like you’re giving a blowjob. Yeah. Like that.”
    She did what I asked her to do. I snapped a few more shots of her angst before I put the camera away. Her expression remained troubled, a riled Doberman on a leash of barbed wire.
    She handed me a condom then laid back, her legs open like the doors of a church.
    Minutes later, orgasms had been shared again and we were both out of breath.
    Patrice panted. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. That’s what it’s all about.”
    She took the condom off me, staggered to the bathroom and flushed it,