Chocolates and Roses

by John Swan
Romantic fantasy, first published in Zygote, winter/spring '99.


It began with a sigh.

In the breakfast nook, tile, marble, chrome, on a side of the house that caught morning sun. Wanda came in, wearing one of her short, silk housecoats, the pink probably. Matching slippers. Nothing else. The refrigerator hummed contentedly, filled with eggs and bacon, fresh fruit, juices, maple syrup. In the kitchen cupboards: six kinds of cereal. Fresh pastries in the bread-box. She poured a cup of coffee that had been brewed from fresh ground beans, then sat down at the other side of the table. And sighed.

Behind his paper, Martin couldn't see any of this, but knew the routine. Except the sigh. "Something wrong, dear?" he asked.

"Not really."

He sipped at his cup, folded the paper, set the world aside. God she was beautiful. Before morning make-up, hair bed-tousled, eyes heavy with sleep, she made his chest ache, made him need to feel worthy. So he shaved twice daily and worked at a catalogue exercise machine. She didn't notice, considered her own beauty an achievement. At night, playing beneath sheets, she said she loved him. He could scarcely believe his fortune.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Tell me."

"That new restaurant on the Concourse? La Frenza? Everyone goes."


Martin nodded, pretending he shared these interests.

"Leslie and I went yesterday. Arrogant little man would not seat us. Can you imagine?" Martin shook his head. "We said who we were. I was very patient, but he would not seat us without reservations. For lunch!"

"Did you speak to the manager?" Martin asked.

"This, man, claimed to be the owner. Said he couldn't offend regular customers by giving away reserved tables to women who showed up unannounced at the door. Women who just showed up at the door! Suzanne and me? I ask you. Somebody really should pin back his ears."

Martin suppressed a smile. Wanda knew he was charmed when such dated expressions passed between her full lips.

"The name again? La Frenza?" She nodded and he redirected the subject. "Let me show some appreciation. Valentines day next week. Anything special you'd like to make it up?"

"Ooh, a surprise, please. I love your surprises. You never fail to spoil me. I always wish I'd found something half so wonderful for you."

"We could go someplace special."

"Valentin's. They'll treat us properly there."

Martin nodded and stretched his thin mouth to a smile. "Maybe you should make reservations."

Wanda smiled too. "You are wicked," she said, rose to kiss him across the table, let her housecoat fall open.

**********

Fredo turned out the lights. He'd balanced the cash, made up the bank deposit while the waiters cleared tables and put up chairs for the night. The kitchen shone clean. A woman would be in next morning to wipe and vacuum the dining room. Next morning: fewer than five hours. Fredo longed for someone he could trust with the keys. Longed to sleep in, just one day.

Arms braced him from behind. "Happy Valentine, lover."
He stiffened, startled probably because he was so tired. "Leslie! How'd you get in?"

"Back door."

Fredo had repeatedly asked staff to lock the back before leaving. They seldom did, leaving him alone, so he'd thought, with the night deposit and the back door wide open to anyone with an appetite for quick cash.

Leslie slipped her left hand into his white, chef's pants. She was small, dark, adept.

"Not tonight, baby. I am way too tired," he sighed

"It's Valentines Day."

"Tomorrow."

He felt her hair on his neck as she shook her head. "After midnight," she said. "Tomorrow is today already."

Small fingers worked in his trousers, squeezing, stroking. She came round front, her hot breath on his chin. He thickened, but not fully hard, not yet. Leslie led him to the cool, steel prep table; guided him onto his back, legs dangling over the edge; then, one by one, undid the buttons of his shirt, pressing her lips softly to the dark, coiled hair beneath, until she reached his buckle. She laughed, quietly, and pulled at it with her teeth, until Fredo removed the metal spike from the leather's eye. Leslie gently drew him out.

She backed to the fridge, opened the door with her hand behind and removed without looking a small bottle of olive oil. Then to the spice cupboard, where she selected for aroma and sensation. At the prep table, she poured small drops of oil onto Fredo's naked torso. He tensed as each cold, golden globule formed on his flesh. Within the circle she formed with the oil drops, Leslie sprinkled three seasonings, then slowly mixed them with the oil, warming them with her hands and the heat rising from Fredo's belly. Hands glistening, Leslie began to stroke Fredo, then bent to tease with her tongue. Fredo closed his eyes and inhaled the pungent spices, savoured their delicate tickle, the entire kitchen now alive in the small space of his lover's mouth.

In the corridor that divided the kitchen from the washrooms, the one that led from the back door, Martin watched and waited for them to finish.

Stroking, pressing, Leslie revived Fredo, held him, led him to an edge, then back until his hands raised her. They traded places, Leslie lying on the table. Fredo at the edge, delicately pushed back the silk of Leslie's skirt, fingered aside her lacy fantasies, lifted her legs to his shoulders and applied some of the oil that still shimmered on his stomach. He entered on waves of silk, paused, savoured, danced his hips to a slow jazz in his head. Leslie passed a satisfied gaze over his slim body, took the rhythm, closed her eyes.

At the depth of every few strokes, Fredo stopped to press against the rigid flesh that rose from within Leslie's undergarments, holding it against his own gleaming stomach with his hand as his torso danced and Leslie softly moaned. Martin started, forgetting for a moment the reason he'd slipped into Fredo and Leslie's world.

Leslie was first to notice. She pushed her lover away and brushed her dress back to her knees, nodding toward the hall. Fredo, flesh flagging, tried to button up. He saw the .45 in Martin's hand.

"Shit." He should have locked the back door after Leslie came in.

Martin smiled. "You could say that." With the gun he waved them away from the cutlery, then produced a roll of mechanics' wire. "Tie his feet," he said, tossing the coil to Leslie. "Three loops around the ankles. Tight," and when she had done that, "The hands. Behind. Now!"

Martin pushed Leslie aside, took pliers from his pocket, pinched a loop of the wire around Fredo's wrists and twisted until it cut the flesh. Then he cut the roll free. "Down. On the floor," he ordered.

He teetered. "I'm going to fall."

Martin nudged him over. Something cracked on contact and Fredo cried out. Martin moved onto Leslie.

"Your turn." The gun barrel traced a circle in the air for her to turn around. When Fredo and Leslie were tied and on the tile floor, Martin went back to the hall. He returned with a red, plastic jerry-can.

"What? That's…" Fredo.

"Gasoline."

"You don't need that," Fredo said. "Just take the money and leave."

Martin hadn't seen the deposit pouch laying on the prep table. He removed the bills and put them in his jacket pocket. "Thanks." He brought out a gold cigarette lighter, flipped the lid and thumbed the gear. When the canvas bag caught, Martin tossed it onto the cold griddle and watched it burn. Before pocketing the lighter, he re-read the inscription: M- my light and my heat. W.

Martin crouched beside his captives.

Fredo: "You've got what you came for, now get out. We won't tell anyone. We won't even report the money stolen. No fire. Please. No fire."

"What makes you think you know what I came for?"

"What is it then? Some fag-baiting thing?" Fredo couldn't avoid a quick sneer.

Martin grabbed Fredo by his shiny, black hair. "My wife was here last week. You insulted her."

"How? Who…look, I'm sorry. I don't even know your wife. There must be a way we can work this out. This is crazy." Martin unscrewed the cap from the jerry-can and watched Fredo's face tighten. Tears came. His voice gurgled. "Oh God, I'm sorry. Please, don't do this."

Leslie spoke to Martin for the first time, her voice calm. "It's too much, torching us." Martin looked at her, raised a brow. "Your wife, she'll think about how we died, the pain. It will spoil your gift," she said.

Martin rolled his eyes over her. She was smart. A beautiful and intelligent creature, his captive. "Never has before," he said and put the muzzle behind Leslie's ear.

Fredo moaned.

"I wasn't even here when you're wife came in," Leslie tried. "Why kill me?"

"I'm a romantic," he said. "Hate to separate lovers," but he brought the gun back to his side. It struck Martin that Leslie was erect, still excited. "There could be another way." She waited, unblinking. "My wife becomes a partner in the restaurant. Then your boyfriend would know to be polite and seat her."

Fredo recovered. "What? You think I'd just sign my business over to you?"

"Eventually, yes, but for now I was thinking a less formal arrangement. Say, every week I drop by for half the money. Gives us a chance to establish trust. Partners should get to know one another, their capabilities, before they get fixed into contracts, don't you think?"

Fredo sputtered.

"Say yes, baby," Leslie told him. "Say yes or he's going to burn us if you don't." But her eyes burnt through Martin.

"There you go. Just say 'yes.' We can start our arrangement right away. And to show my good faith…" Martin took the deposit money from his pocket, counted some out onto the prep table for Fredo and Leslie. "There's your half for this week."

"But…but, that's not half. The bag wasn't profit. There are expenses…"

"Expenses are your half," Martin said.

Fredo whined incredulous protest.

Leslie shushed him, her eyes still glued to Martin.

"Come over here, baby. Let me loose. We should get to know one another too. Celebrate the deal."

Martin stepped back. She's a pistol, he thought. If he'd seen her on the street, he wouldn't have taken her for anything but what she pretended to be.

"I can do things, whatever you want. Things you've never done. Things you've never even dreamed," Leslie offered.

She looked real to Martin. The face, heart-shaped, heavy, sexy make-up, and the body, slight and trim, you could hardly tell. A real pair, he could see that, the dress revealing deep cleavage. He listened to her talk, enjoyed the arrogant, youthful, assumptions she made as Fredo whimpered at her side. As his eyes descended her body Martin had thoughts, saw himself in ways he never had before. He inhaled the oiled-spice aroma that filled the room and remembered Wanda, the shampoo smell of her hair, what she would say if she knew what he was thinking right now.

He took two quick steps forward and put a bullet in Leslie's head. Fredo screamed and Martin fired a second shot to end the noise.

He stared at what he'd done. Watched as thickening, red fluid channeled into gaps between the shiny, white floor tiles. Tried to imagine the act undone, and weekly cash from the restaurant adding to his and Wanda's freedom. His hand shook as it rested his .45 on the steel table.

It was steadier when he took the gun up again and polished the table surface free of fingerprints with his elbow. He went to the bathroom for toilet paper, tore a length and wadded one end into the kitchen's toaster, trailed the other over Leslie and Fredo. He poured fuel over their bodies and around the room, set the toaster on dark, pushed down the lever and left

**********

In a dark corner of Valentin's, at the same side of a table that looked over the bay, Martin and Wanda celebrated their love.

Champagne bubbled in a glass amid a mess of wrapping paper, ribbon and the open boxes. "Roses and chocolates?" Wanda said.

"You don't like them?" Murky scotch lay flat in the bottom of Martin's tumbler. It was unusual for him to have three when they were out. "Not good enough?"

"I love them. It's just so unlike you, Martin. I'm surprised you didn't give me another restaurant."

"Well, tell the truth, the deal fell through so I had to come up with something different." He threw back his drink and looked around for a waiter. "Another place will come up, I'm sure, the way you and Suzanne get around."

Wanda laid thin, pink fingers on a cellophaned carton. "Chocolates and roses," she sighed.