The Taste of Copper

Lisa leaned out the window of her apartment and took a slow drag on her cigarette: Virginia Slims, like her mother used to smoke. A soft breeze rustled her damp, once-blonde hair, now crimson. She quietly let her gaze drift along the scenery; a few children played a game of kickball in the street three stories below, their laughter the tinkling of little bells carried on the cool pre-storm wind. Angry clouds hung low in the sky, but it had not yet begun to rain. The coolness was a welcome reprieve from the oppressive midsummer heat.

She took another drag on her cigarette and let her eyes wander along the face of the apartment complex across the street, its glass eyes portals into the lives of her neighbors. Mr. Crispin on the second floor sat on his balcony, tobacco smoke curling around his head from the pipe clutched in his toothless, wrinkled grin. He read the paper, as always, and didn't answer when she called out a greeting to him, as always. She suspected that was because he was deaf, just like his wife.

Lisa glanced at her watch, absently rubbed away a smudge of something from its glass face; it was a quarter to four. Soon, Mrs. Crispin would come back from the insurance company where she had worked since 1953 and the two would shout back and forth, asking about each other's days and eventually debating what Mrs. Crispin would cook for dinner. Mr. Crispin would argue that they should just go out to eat, because, as he could be heard to say far too loudly, her cooking always "tasted like shit." Jason had never liked Lisa's cooking either, but then, the things he had liked about her were highly selective.

Inevitably, Mrs. Crispin would squash the argument and the two would silently scowl at each other over the dinner table. Then they would sit in their recliners and watch loud television until Mrs. Crispin went to bed.

She let her eyes wander away from the old man. Mrs. Haverdy on the third floor was speaking energetically at a telephone, nervously glancing now and again across the street at her. Lisa puffed her cigarette again, smiled, and waved slightly at the woman. Mrs. Haverdy was one of those nosy, middle-aged women who didn't work, and spent her days trying to catch her neighbors committing various unsavory and un-Christian acts. Jason had liked to give the woman a show; he liked to throw open the curtains and press her bare skin up against the window when he knew Mrs. Haverdy was watching. It embarrassed Lisa to be so exposed to the world, but that had never mattered to Jason. He would just laugh, call her a slut, and tell her to spread her legs wider. She'd do it too, because it pleased him.

Her eyes drifted again, this time to the window of Amy Selleck. Amy was a mousy, run-down girl of twenty-five, a mother of two little girls. She and her girls were hiding from Amy's husband after Amy caught him doing "naughty things" to the girls. He'd beat her nearly to death when she'd taken them to her mother's house; her left eye still sat funny from where his boot had cracked the bones in her cheek and forehead. Jason had never beat Lisa; he'd slapped her once, but she'd deserved it, and he'd said she looked sexy with blood on her lips. He held her down when they had sex that night, and told her that she liked it, and she told him that she did.

Her gaze dropped back down to the street, where Mr. Jackson, the postman, was making his rounds. Mr. Jackson was a nice-faced black man, married, with a son and dog. She'd often seen them all together at the park for Sunday picnics, Mr. Jackson and his son throwing a Frisbee with the dog yapping at their heels, while Mrs. Jackson sat on a blanket reading a book. She'd also seen Mr. Jackson come into the restaurant where she worked, his mistress hanging off his arm. Funny what you learn about people sometimes. Jason had cheated on her once or twice, but he'd told her it was just sex and that made it okay. Lisa'd told him that she didn't like the way he treated her, but he'd just laughed and called her a slut again and pressed his cigarette against her breast. She'd yelped and tried to get up, but he'd grabbed her hips and held her down and told her to stop bitching. She still had a little red scar from it.

Mrs. Crispin had shown up by then, and she watched quietly as the old couple on the second floor of the building across the street started their normal shouting ritual. Jason had never shouted at her; he didn't need to. He'd always had that calm, confident, practically-arrogant swagger about him. He knew nothing was a threat to him, and he had liked to flaunt that. He told her she got off on being powerless to him, that she liked to be dominated, and he'd say it in that matter-of-fact sort of tone that made her believe it. She'd tell him as much, because he liked to hear it.

She lit another cigarette, and let the remnants of the old one fall from her fingertips; the wind caught it and carried it a bit, then the sky opened up and it began to rain; the children below her scurried to collect the kickball and seek shelter, and Mr. Jackson opened his umbrella. The rain felt good on her face. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the slow whine of sirens.

She'd met Jason at a party, or rather, afterwards. That is, she woke up the next morning naked and he next to her, and it just sort of went from there. He'd never exactly asked her out on a date. They exchanged names and phone numbers and promised to call each other, went about their separate ways, and that was that. About a week later, he came into the restaurant with a skinny girl with big boobs and a short skirt. He ordered a steak, the girl ordered a salad, and by the end of the meal, he'd talked her into giving him her address and inviting him over for drinks that night, then he got up and left the skinny girl with the bill.

That night, Jason had shown up at her door an hour later than they'd agreed upon and he brought a friend of his, a greasy-haired man named Frank, who Jason said was in pharmaceutical sales. Frank wore a wild pink Hawaiian shirt printed with flamingos. Jason poured them some gin, and she told him she didn't like the way Frank was looking at her, but he told her he didn't care and told her to "drink her fucking gin." She didn't remember much else from that night. At some point, the flamingos on Frank's shirt seemed to be moving, and she remembered someone biting one of her nipples, but not much more.

The sirens were a little louder now, and she could see a pair of patrol cars at the end of the street, their lights flashing like Independence Day sparklers amid the raindrops. Jason had taken her out for Independence Day a few weeks ago to one of those community fireworks shows. He'd made her wear this ugly red, white, and blue miniskirt and these tall stiletto heels, told her she needed to be more damned patriotic. She thought she looked like a hooker, and he told her whores were good for military morale. He grinned when he said that, and she wondered what he meant, but she didn't argue. There wasn't much point in arguing with Jason. He always won, and he liked to let her know that he'd won. He hadn't even stayed next to her during the fireworks show: he slipped away and she saw him flirting with another woman at one point. She'd asked him about it that night as they lay in bed, but he'd just pushed her head down to his crotch and told her to do what she was made for.

The two police cars pulled to a stop across the street, and four officers stepped out and glanced around. She recognized Officers Bailey and Hendricks; they came into the restaurant often for coffee. Bailey looked up at her, and she smiled and waved, but he just frowned, pulled his cap down, and the four walked towards her building. She puffed her cigarette, smiled to herself again, then flicked the butt away into the rain. Officer Bailey was a nice guy, one of the younger members of the force, about a year or two older than her. She'd flirted with him a few times when he came into the restaurant: he got flustered easily, and she thought it was cute when he blushed. That was the time Jason had hit her; he'd seen her one day flirting with Bailey, and slapped her that night and told her if he caught her trying to "whore herself out" to other men again, he'd leave her. He had asked her if she felt guilty for betraying him, and she had said she did.

She stepped away from the window and into the bedroom, slipped out of her white and red robe. It was damp, and squelched slightly when it fell to the tile. She pulled on a skirt, some heels, and a blouse, and walked into the kitchen and poured herself a martini. There was a knock on the door.

"Lisa? Open the door." That was Bailey.

She smiled, sat down in one of the chairs, crossed her legs and sipped her drink. "It's unlocked," she replied. She smiled at the men when the door opened and they stepped in, guns drawn. "There's no need for those. Watch your step though...it's a bit slippery in here." She watched their eyes follow a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. One edge of the pool smeared away into the living room, and one of the officers stepped in to investigate. Bailey just shook his head, stepped carefully around the pool and stopped in front of her.

"You're covered in blood," he said.

"He's worse," she replied with a grin.

"What happened?"

"I killed him."

"You mean he attacked you, and you fought back in self-defense?"

She smiled and touched his cheek, leaving a little smudge of red. "You're sweet. I borrowed a crowbar from Mr. Liston next door. It's on the counter. There's some money next to it to buy him a new one."

Bailey sighed. "I've got to arrest you."

She licked her lips, and tasted copper. She smiled, then laughed a bit. "He always did say I was sexy with blood on my lips."