Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Sept 14, 2008 13:43:58 GMT -5
Title: Suspicion
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of its characters or places. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler.
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summary: After Jerome discovers Esmé behaving strangely, he decides to follow her and find out the truth for himself.
For the first time in the three years they had been husband and wife (excluding the six months they had spent living apart after she had run off with that wicked count), Jerome found himself doubting his faith in Esmé.
She had been behaving strangely for more than two whole weeks. He had first noticed it the previous Monday evening in the kitchen, while she had been standing at the stove cooking dinner. He had gone to wrap his arms around her waist and (very carefully) squeeze her stomach the way he always did when they were alone together. It always made her purr with happiness, but on this particular evening she had gently slid herself out of his arms. He had taken it as a sign that she was just busy, and that she would be more in the mood to be intimate with him later on in the bedroom.
But bedtime came, and Esmé still refused to let Jerome put his hands anywhere near her stomach. She had even insisted that she change into her nightgown in the bathroom. When she emerged and he questioned her about her unusual behavior, she had only giggled and told him he was being silly. His face had then taken on a sad look of disappointment, at which point she had floated across the room and thrown herself into his arms.
“’I love you,’” Esmé had said, right before kissing Jerome on the mouth.
Jerome had kissed her back, and made one last attempt to rest his palm on the baby-fat curve of her stomach that he loved so much. To his anguish, Esmé had brushed his hand away. Then, as if to make up for it, she had kissed him again, letting her lips rest on his for a longer period of time.
It was now Friday afternoon, and here Jerome was, sitting behind the wheel of his Lexis in the parking lot of Mulctuary Money Management. He hated himself for having doubts in regard to his wife’s sincerity, but there were signs that he could not continue to ignore. She had been coming home late from work every night, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. It was almost five-thirty now, and in ten more minutes Esmé would come sweeping through the front doors of the bank. Jerome was fairly certain that she wouldn’t recognize his car (after all, there were a number of wealthy people in town who owned and drove cars similar to his).
Jerome absolutely hated to suspect Esmé of having an affair, but considering her past such an idea wasn’t altogether impossible. If it turned out that was it, then the only thing that would keep him from putting a bullet in his head were Carmelita and Emma.
Jerome was snapped out of his state of self pity by the sound of the bank’s front doors opening. He looked through his car’s windshield to see Esmé as she emerged from the building and began to make her way across the parking lot to her car (a red Saturn). Her long, dark hair flowed behind her in a ponytail she had fashioned using one of her husband’s neckties (“’Because wearing neckties in one’s hair is in,’” she had told him the first time he had questioned her about it), and Jerome felt himself smile a bit. Esmé looked so cute in her little pinstripe suit, its pattern flattering the soft curves of her body.
She was more than halfway to her car when she inadvertently tripped in her stiletto heels, just barely missing falling flat on her face across the asphalt. Jerome found himself reaching for the door, but stopped his hand before he could risk exposing himself.
He watched Esmé climb into her car, and waited until he saw her begin to pull out of the parking lot before following suit.
Jerome was surprised and a little perturbed by the length of the drive that eventually led him to an area of Dark Avenue that he had never been to before. Esmé, on the other hand, apparently knew her way around.
The area wasn’t squalid by any means, and appeared to do a lot of business. It consisted of independent shops, such as bookstores and artist’s depots. Most of them did business out of bright and colorful buildings no larger than a single-story house. Because they were all wedged so closely together, Esmé chose the first parking spot she could find. Jerome himself managed to squeeze in between two mini vans. This enabled him to stay hidden, while at the same time it gave him a sufficient view of his wife and her car.
He watched Esmé slide out of her car and walk somewhat unsteadily (she always tended to wobble in her stilettos) across the parking lot towards a magenta-colored building. It wasn’t until she had disappeared inside, that Jerome took his eyes away from the door and noticed the sign posted above it.
TATTOO PARLOR.
Jerome screamed openly. What on God’s green Earth was Esmé going into a place like that for?
Then suddenly, it struck him in the same way it had that morning at Veblen Hall: Esmé had never actually loved him. She had only wanted a father for her two daughters. He knew she had to be getting the finishing touches of an eye carved into her stomach, or else what other reason could she have for not wanting him to touch her there?
Jerome felt hot tears of anger and sorrow fill his eyes, and he slammed his fists down against the steering wheel. For the first time in three years, he was beginning to see what his father had meant when Maxwell Squalor had told his son to divorce Esmé. What was wrong with Jerome? Was he really so pathetic and unlovable that he was doomed to spend the rest of his life all alone? He supposed that must be it, or else why would his wife be dismissing all of his advances?
Jerome had barely stopped crying when he lifted his head just in time to see Esmé as she stepped out of the tattoo parlor. Once more, he waited until she was back inside her car and had pulled out of the parking lot before he made his move.
Not wanting his wife to return the apartment before he did, Jerome took the route that cut nearly ten minutes off the drive back to 667 Dark Avenue. He had just enough time to park his car inside the parking garage and hurry into the building before Esmé arrived.
Just as Esmé was pulling into the parking garage, Jerome was riding the elevator up to the eighty-fourth floor of the building. While she was climbing into the elevator, he was sitting down in his favorite armchair in the hallway of the penthouse. He would have made himself an aqueous martini if only he hadn’t been feeling so nervous for what he was about to do.
The front door of the penthouse opened five minutes later, and Esmé stepped inside. She looked happy, and the smile on her face was almost enough to make him forget all about following through with what he knew must be done.
Almost, but not quite.
“Hello, darling,” Esmé said. “I thought you’d be napping. Lately, I’ve been falling asleep before you.”
“How was work?” Jerome asked casually.
Esmé bent down to remove her stilettos, and tossed them into a corner of the room so that no one would trip over them later. “Work was fine,” she replied, sliding out of her pinstripe jacket and laying it carefully over the back of the loveseat.
Underneath her jacket she was wearing a black tank-top that was so tight it revealed the curve of her belly through the material. Jerome had to force himself to look away for fear it would cause him to abandon his decision, and met her eyes instead.
“Are you alright, honey?” Esmé asked, taking notice of the stern expression on her husband’s face.
“Where have you been going every evening after work for the last two weeks?” Jerome said.
“I already told you. Eleanor Connolly is out with the flu, so I’ve been meeting with some of her clients.”
“Don’t lie to me, Esmé. I already know what you’ve been up to.”
Esmé raised a sculpted eyebrow in confusion. “’Up to’?” she repeated. “Jerome, you know that as the city’s sixth most important financial advisor, my schedule tends to be very demanding. I’m only—”
“Where is it?” asked Jerome.
“Where’s what?”
Hoisting his large body out of the armchair, Jerome walked slowly across the room and over to Esmé. He seized her roughly by the arm, and watched her blue eyes fill with alarm. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,” he said sternly.
“I’m still not sure what—”
“Enough, Esmé,” Jerome snapped, and Esmé stared at him as if she couldn’t believe he was capable of such a thing. “There’s no reason to continue your performance. I already know where you were this evening. I… I followed you.”
“You… followed me? Jerome, I— don’t you trust me?” Esmé asked. She blinked her eyes as she felt tears begin to develop inside of them.
“Trust is a delicate thing, Esmé. When you keep secrets from me and pull away every time I try to hold you, I tend to get ideas.”
“What sort of ideas?”
Jerome let out a deep, heavy sigh. “I didn’t want to bring this up,” he began. “But you’ve given me little choice. At first I thought… I suspected you were seeing someone else behind my back.”
Esmé’s eyes went wide with horror at her husband’s accusation. “You honestly think I would cheat on you?!” she screamed, and ripped her arm out of his grip. “If that was the case, then don’t you think I would’ve spared myself the humiliation brought on by the articles in The Daily Punctilio and your ridiculous father? Don’t you think I would’ve left this city and changed my name three years ago if I didn’t give one single damn about you, Jerome?” As tears rolled down her cheeks, Esmé tugged up the bottom of her shirt and revealed her new tattoo.
It was the last thing that Jerome had expected to see.
Just above Esmé’s bellybutton in the same fancy, black lettering as on her marriage certificate written “Jerome and Esmé”. Directly below her bellybutton in the same lettering were the words “Married After Only One Evening Together”. On each of her ribs had been drawn a ringing wedding bell, which hung from a single grapevine that circled the untouched skin around her bellybutton.
“I wanted to surprise you,” Esmé said in an eerily quiet voice, “for your birthday next week. And the… the reason I haven’t been letting you touch me all week is… is because my stomach has been so sore, and I didn’t want you seeing my tattoo before it was finished. If I had even the slightest idea that you would disapprove, then I would never have gotten it.”
Jerome had no idea what to say. He felt absolutely horrible, a complete monster. There she was, his darling little wife, whose only crime had been in trying to make her husband happy, and he had ruined it all by making her cry.
Jerome was just about to beg Esmé for forgiveness, when she turned and rushed out of the apartment, slamming the door loudly behind her. He made to follow her, when it occurred to him that she was coatless and shoeless. He grabbed her pinstripe jacket and stiletto heels, and dashed out into the hallway. He caught a glimpse of his wife’s tear-streaked face just as the elevator doors slid closed.
Jerome slammed the palm of his freehand against the button of the other elevator, and stood impatiently as he waited for the doors to open up. Hours seemed to pass before they did, and he was grateful that no one else was inside the elevator as he stepped into it.
He only hoped that he could catch Esmé before she reached the doors of the lobby.
The elevator soon reached the first floor, and the doors separated. As Jerome stepped out, he heard an explosion of lightning coming from outside. Panic filled him, and he began to run.
He was only a few feet from the front doors when a familiar sob caught his attention, and he stumbled backwards. Turning his head, he caught sight of Esmé. She was sitting on the bench in front of the windows, her feet tucked up underneath her. Her pretty face was hidden in the crook of one pale arm, which was draped over the armrest. The necktie she had been using to hold back her hair now lay on the floor by the bench. Her long locks flowed over her shoulders and down her back.
Relief swept through Jerome at the realization that Esmé had not run out of the building like she tended to do following one of their arguments. Nevertheless, he approached the bench carefully. Just in case she tried to run, it would be easy to catch her.
Bending down, Jerome picked up the discarded necktie. It was the one with the smiley face pattern on it, which his brother had sent him for Christmas the year before. Holding out the tie to Esmé, Jerome said softly, “I think you dropped this, sweetheart.”
Esmé sniffled, right before drawing her face away from her arm. Her mascara had mixed with her tears and was now running down her cheeks. Taking the necktie, Jerome used it to gently wipe away his wife’s tears.
“Darling, I’m so sorry not to have trusted you,” he said. “I know there’s no way in which I can even begin to make it up to you. But I’d like to try.”
“You really hurt me,” Esmé said. “I thought you knew me better than that, Jerome.”
Their conversation was interrupted as a thunderous clap of thunder echoed through the dark sky, and Esmé let out a terrified scream. She absolutely hated thunderstorms, as they always left her believing that lightning would strike the apartment and there would be a fire. The only thing that made her feel safe was to barricade herself inside the bathroom and crouch down in the tub until the storm had passed.
As Esmé began to cry again (more from fear than hurt feelings, Jerome gathered), he picked up her pinstripe jacket and wrapped it tightly around her trembling shoulders. “Come on,” he said, and kissed her nose. “Let’s go back upstairs.”
Esmé nodded from where her face was hidden between Jerome’s arm and his chest. He motioned with his hand for her to drape her legs over the side of the bench, and he slipped her shoes onto her feet for her. She rose slowly, and he put his arm around her.
They headed briskly for the elevators, as more thunder boomed loudly from outside. Jerome tightened his arm around his wife, who was shaking uncontrollably beside him.
They soon arrived at the elevators and stepped into the first available one. The doors closed behind them, and Esmé began to sob openly. Jerome knew that her fear of thunder and lightning would pass when the storm did, but it might take some time before her broken heart was completely mended.
Jerome pressed the button for the top floor, and the elevator began to ascend. The only sound was that of Esmé weeping into her husband’s shoulder while he held her tightly in both arms until the elevator stopped.
The doors parted, and Jerome and Esmé stepped out. Being sure to keep one arm securely around her shoulders, he reached out and pushed open the door of the penthouse. Jerome was startled but not completely surprised when Esmé broke free and raced off down the hallway.
Knowing that she was now safe and sound inside the penthouse gave him some peace of mind. He traced her to their bedroom, where he discovered her crouched inside the tub of their built-on bathroom. She had her fingers plugged inside both ears in order to drown out the sounds of thunder and lightning. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Kneeling down beside the tub, he draped his arm over the rim and laid his hand gently on his wife’s shoulder.
“I hate it,” Esmé whimpered sadly. “I hate the thunder.”
“The storm will pass eventually,” Jerome answered softly.
“When?”
Jerome looked through the doorway and across the bedroom at the full-scale windows. Rain was pouring down the panes in long, thick streaks. The sky outside had developed into a dim gray as compared to the bright blue it had been for a considerable part of the day.
“Soon,” said Jerome.
Just after he said that, a bolt of lightning pierced the sky, followed by a round of thunder. Esmé shrieked, and Jerome threw his arms around her. For nearly twenty minutes he continued to hold her, until finally the storm overhead began to pass. Grabbing a handful of toilet paper from the roll next to him, he tenderly brushed the tears from her eyes.
“I think the storm has ended,” Jerome said. “If you’re still in the mood, I’d love to see your tattoo. I’m afraid I didn’t get a very good look the first time.”
Esmé didn’t say a word as she climbed out of the tub and walked slowly into the bedroom. She sat down on the bed, and took off her jacket. Jerome followed her out of the bathroom, and joined her on the bed. She lifted her arms, and he slid the tank-top up over her head, placing the shirt on the bed beside her jacket.
Esmé’s stomach had folded over in the middle the way it had done ever since she had given birth, though it did absolutely nothing to interfere with Jerome’s view of her new tattoo. Taking his hand, he slowly trailed the tips of his fingers across the design on that incredibly soft skin.
“Did it hurt very much?” he asked concernedly.
“A bit,” Esmé admitted. “Every time I felt ready to scream, the needle would stop.” She paused. “Do you still disapprove?”
“Not at all, darling. By far, it’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever done for me. I just don’t like the thought of you letting someone else touch you there.”
“Relax, Jerome. It was a woman who did all the work.”
Jerome felt like an utter fool. He lowered his head, and kissed the area of Esmé’s stomach where her name was inscribed.
“I love you,” Jerome said. “And I’m an idiot for ever believing you would cheat on me.”
“Yes,” Esmé agreed, stroking his hair affectionately with the tips of her long-nailed fingers. “You are. But despite all your failings, I love you anyway.”
Jerome licked a purple grape located underneath his own name, and then slowly pushed his wife down onto the bed. “I don’t deserve you. Sometimes I wonder how on Earth you put up with me.”
Esmé didn’t bother explaining to Jerome how she had often asked herself that very same question during the earliest days of their marriage. Nor did he see any reason to explain to her his fear that she had allowed someone to carve the image of an eye into her stomach.
Esmé cupped Jerome’s face in her hands and squeezed gently, so that his chubby cheeks looked even chubbier. “Just shut up and kiss me,” she instructed, and he leaned forward to do just that.
Reason for Editing: Had to add some things.
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of its characters or places. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler.
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summary: After Jerome discovers Esmé behaving strangely, he decides to follow her and find out the truth for himself.
***
For the first time in the three years they had been husband and wife (excluding the six months they had spent living apart after she had run off with that wicked count), Jerome found himself doubting his faith in Esmé.
She had been behaving strangely for more than two whole weeks. He had first noticed it the previous Monday evening in the kitchen, while she had been standing at the stove cooking dinner. He had gone to wrap his arms around her waist and (very carefully) squeeze her stomach the way he always did when they were alone together. It always made her purr with happiness, but on this particular evening she had gently slid herself out of his arms. He had taken it as a sign that she was just busy, and that she would be more in the mood to be intimate with him later on in the bedroom.
But bedtime came, and Esmé still refused to let Jerome put his hands anywhere near her stomach. She had even insisted that she change into her nightgown in the bathroom. When she emerged and he questioned her about her unusual behavior, she had only giggled and told him he was being silly. His face had then taken on a sad look of disappointment, at which point she had floated across the room and thrown herself into his arms.
“’I love you,’” Esmé had said, right before kissing Jerome on the mouth.
Jerome had kissed her back, and made one last attempt to rest his palm on the baby-fat curve of her stomach that he loved so much. To his anguish, Esmé had brushed his hand away. Then, as if to make up for it, she had kissed him again, letting her lips rest on his for a longer period of time.
It was now Friday afternoon, and here Jerome was, sitting behind the wheel of his Lexis in the parking lot of Mulctuary Money Management. He hated himself for having doubts in regard to his wife’s sincerity, but there were signs that he could not continue to ignore. She had been coming home late from work every night, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. It was almost five-thirty now, and in ten more minutes Esmé would come sweeping through the front doors of the bank. Jerome was fairly certain that she wouldn’t recognize his car (after all, there were a number of wealthy people in town who owned and drove cars similar to his).
Jerome absolutely hated to suspect Esmé of having an affair, but considering her past such an idea wasn’t altogether impossible. If it turned out that was it, then the only thing that would keep him from putting a bullet in his head were Carmelita and Emma.
Jerome was snapped out of his state of self pity by the sound of the bank’s front doors opening. He looked through his car’s windshield to see Esmé as she emerged from the building and began to make her way across the parking lot to her car (a red Saturn). Her long, dark hair flowed behind her in a ponytail she had fashioned using one of her husband’s neckties (“’Because wearing neckties in one’s hair is in,’” she had told him the first time he had questioned her about it), and Jerome felt himself smile a bit. Esmé looked so cute in her little pinstripe suit, its pattern flattering the soft curves of her body.
She was more than halfway to her car when she inadvertently tripped in her stiletto heels, just barely missing falling flat on her face across the asphalt. Jerome found himself reaching for the door, but stopped his hand before he could risk exposing himself.
He watched Esmé climb into her car, and waited until he saw her begin to pull out of the parking lot before following suit.
***
Jerome was surprised and a little perturbed by the length of the drive that eventually led him to an area of Dark Avenue that he had never been to before. Esmé, on the other hand, apparently knew her way around.
The area wasn’t squalid by any means, and appeared to do a lot of business. It consisted of independent shops, such as bookstores and artist’s depots. Most of them did business out of bright and colorful buildings no larger than a single-story house. Because they were all wedged so closely together, Esmé chose the first parking spot she could find. Jerome himself managed to squeeze in between two mini vans. This enabled him to stay hidden, while at the same time it gave him a sufficient view of his wife and her car.
He watched Esmé slide out of her car and walk somewhat unsteadily (she always tended to wobble in her stilettos) across the parking lot towards a magenta-colored building. It wasn’t until she had disappeared inside, that Jerome took his eyes away from the door and noticed the sign posted above it.
TATTOO PARLOR.
Jerome screamed openly. What on God’s green Earth was Esmé going into a place like that for?
Then suddenly, it struck him in the same way it had that morning at Veblen Hall: Esmé had never actually loved him. She had only wanted a father for her two daughters. He knew she had to be getting the finishing touches of an eye carved into her stomach, or else what other reason could she have for not wanting him to touch her there?
Jerome felt hot tears of anger and sorrow fill his eyes, and he slammed his fists down against the steering wheel. For the first time in three years, he was beginning to see what his father had meant when Maxwell Squalor had told his son to divorce Esmé. What was wrong with Jerome? Was he really so pathetic and unlovable that he was doomed to spend the rest of his life all alone? He supposed that must be it, or else why would his wife be dismissing all of his advances?
Jerome had barely stopped crying when he lifted his head just in time to see Esmé as she stepped out of the tattoo parlor. Once more, he waited until she was back inside her car and had pulled out of the parking lot before he made his move.
***
Not wanting his wife to return the apartment before he did, Jerome took the route that cut nearly ten minutes off the drive back to 667 Dark Avenue. He had just enough time to park his car inside the parking garage and hurry into the building before Esmé arrived.
Just as Esmé was pulling into the parking garage, Jerome was riding the elevator up to the eighty-fourth floor of the building. While she was climbing into the elevator, he was sitting down in his favorite armchair in the hallway of the penthouse. He would have made himself an aqueous martini if only he hadn’t been feeling so nervous for what he was about to do.
The front door of the penthouse opened five minutes later, and Esmé stepped inside. She looked happy, and the smile on her face was almost enough to make him forget all about following through with what he knew must be done.
Almost, but not quite.
“Hello, darling,” Esmé said. “I thought you’d be napping. Lately, I’ve been falling asleep before you.”
“How was work?” Jerome asked casually.
Esmé bent down to remove her stilettos, and tossed them into a corner of the room so that no one would trip over them later. “Work was fine,” she replied, sliding out of her pinstripe jacket and laying it carefully over the back of the loveseat.
Underneath her jacket she was wearing a black tank-top that was so tight it revealed the curve of her belly through the material. Jerome had to force himself to look away for fear it would cause him to abandon his decision, and met her eyes instead.
“Are you alright, honey?” Esmé asked, taking notice of the stern expression on her husband’s face.
“Where have you been going every evening after work for the last two weeks?” Jerome said.
“I already told you. Eleanor Connolly is out with the flu, so I’ve been meeting with some of her clients.”
“Don’t lie to me, Esmé. I already know what you’ve been up to.”
Esmé raised a sculpted eyebrow in confusion. “’Up to’?” she repeated. “Jerome, you know that as the city’s sixth most important financial advisor, my schedule tends to be very demanding. I’m only—”
“Where is it?” asked Jerome.
“Where’s what?”
Hoisting his large body out of the armchair, Jerome walked slowly across the room and over to Esmé. He seized her roughly by the arm, and watched her blue eyes fill with alarm. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,” he said sternly.
“I’m still not sure what—”
“Enough, Esmé,” Jerome snapped, and Esmé stared at him as if she couldn’t believe he was capable of such a thing. “There’s no reason to continue your performance. I already know where you were this evening. I… I followed you.”
“You… followed me? Jerome, I— don’t you trust me?” Esmé asked. She blinked her eyes as she felt tears begin to develop inside of them.
“Trust is a delicate thing, Esmé. When you keep secrets from me and pull away every time I try to hold you, I tend to get ideas.”
“What sort of ideas?”
Jerome let out a deep, heavy sigh. “I didn’t want to bring this up,” he began. “But you’ve given me little choice. At first I thought… I suspected you were seeing someone else behind my back.”
Esmé’s eyes went wide with horror at her husband’s accusation. “You honestly think I would cheat on you?!” she screamed, and ripped her arm out of his grip. “If that was the case, then don’t you think I would’ve spared myself the humiliation brought on by the articles in The Daily Punctilio and your ridiculous father? Don’t you think I would’ve left this city and changed my name three years ago if I didn’t give one single damn about you, Jerome?” As tears rolled down her cheeks, Esmé tugged up the bottom of her shirt and revealed her new tattoo.
It was the last thing that Jerome had expected to see.
Just above Esmé’s bellybutton in the same fancy, black lettering as on her marriage certificate written “Jerome and Esmé”. Directly below her bellybutton in the same lettering were the words “Married After Only One Evening Together”. On each of her ribs had been drawn a ringing wedding bell, which hung from a single grapevine that circled the untouched skin around her bellybutton.
“I wanted to surprise you,” Esmé said in an eerily quiet voice, “for your birthday next week. And the… the reason I haven’t been letting you touch me all week is… is because my stomach has been so sore, and I didn’t want you seeing my tattoo before it was finished. If I had even the slightest idea that you would disapprove, then I would never have gotten it.”
Jerome had no idea what to say. He felt absolutely horrible, a complete monster. There she was, his darling little wife, whose only crime had been in trying to make her husband happy, and he had ruined it all by making her cry.
Jerome was just about to beg Esmé for forgiveness, when she turned and rushed out of the apartment, slamming the door loudly behind her. He made to follow her, when it occurred to him that she was coatless and shoeless. He grabbed her pinstripe jacket and stiletto heels, and dashed out into the hallway. He caught a glimpse of his wife’s tear-streaked face just as the elevator doors slid closed.
Jerome slammed the palm of his freehand against the button of the other elevator, and stood impatiently as he waited for the doors to open up. Hours seemed to pass before they did, and he was grateful that no one else was inside the elevator as he stepped into it.
He only hoped that he could catch Esmé before she reached the doors of the lobby.
The elevator soon reached the first floor, and the doors separated. As Jerome stepped out, he heard an explosion of lightning coming from outside. Panic filled him, and he began to run.
He was only a few feet from the front doors when a familiar sob caught his attention, and he stumbled backwards. Turning his head, he caught sight of Esmé. She was sitting on the bench in front of the windows, her feet tucked up underneath her. Her pretty face was hidden in the crook of one pale arm, which was draped over the armrest. The necktie she had been using to hold back her hair now lay on the floor by the bench. Her long locks flowed over her shoulders and down her back.
Relief swept through Jerome at the realization that Esmé had not run out of the building like she tended to do following one of their arguments. Nevertheless, he approached the bench carefully. Just in case she tried to run, it would be easy to catch her.
Bending down, Jerome picked up the discarded necktie. It was the one with the smiley face pattern on it, which his brother had sent him for Christmas the year before. Holding out the tie to Esmé, Jerome said softly, “I think you dropped this, sweetheart.”
Esmé sniffled, right before drawing her face away from her arm. Her mascara had mixed with her tears and was now running down her cheeks. Taking the necktie, Jerome used it to gently wipe away his wife’s tears.
“Darling, I’m so sorry not to have trusted you,” he said. “I know there’s no way in which I can even begin to make it up to you. But I’d like to try.”
“You really hurt me,” Esmé said. “I thought you knew me better than that, Jerome.”
Their conversation was interrupted as a thunderous clap of thunder echoed through the dark sky, and Esmé let out a terrified scream. She absolutely hated thunderstorms, as they always left her believing that lightning would strike the apartment and there would be a fire. The only thing that made her feel safe was to barricade herself inside the bathroom and crouch down in the tub until the storm had passed.
As Esmé began to cry again (more from fear than hurt feelings, Jerome gathered), he picked up her pinstripe jacket and wrapped it tightly around her trembling shoulders. “Come on,” he said, and kissed her nose. “Let’s go back upstairs.”
Esmé nodded from where her face was hidden between Jerome’s arm and his chest. He motioned with his hand for her to drape her legs over the side of the bench, and he slipped her shoes onto her feet for her. She rose slowly, and he put his arm around her.
They headed briskly for the elevators, as more thunder boomed loudly from outside. Jerome tightened his arm around his wife, who was shaking uncontrollably beside him.
They soon arrived at the elevators and stepped into the first available one. The doors closed behind them, and Esmé began to sob openly. Jerome knew that her fear of thunder and lightning would pass when the storm did, but it might take some time before her broken heart was completely mended.
Jerome pressed the button for the top floor, and the elevator began to ascend. The only sound was that of Esmé weeping into her husband’s shoulder while he held her tightly in both arms until the elevator stopped.
The doors parted, and Jerome and Esmé stepped out. Being sure to keep one arm securely around her shoulders, he reached out and pushed open the door of the penthouse. Jerome was startled but not completely surprised when Esmé broke free and raced off down the hallway.
Knowing that she was now safe and sound inside the penthouse gave him some peace of mind. He traced her to their bedroom, where he discovered her crouched inside the tub of their built-on bathroom. She had her fingers plugged inside both ears in order to drown out the sounds of thunder and lightning. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Kneeling down beside the tub, he draped his arm over the rim and laid his hand gently on his wife’s shoulder.
“I hate it,” Esmé whimpered sadly. “I hate the thunder.”
“The storm will pass eventually,” Jerome answered softly.
“When?”
Jerome looked through the doorway and across the bedroom at the full-scale windows. Rain was pouring down the panes in long, thick streaks. The sky outside had developed into a dim gray as compared to the bright blue it had been for a considerable part of the day.
“Soon,” said Jerome.
Just after he said that, a bolt of lightning pierced the sky, followed by a round of thunder. Esmé shrieked, and Jerome threw his arms around her. For nearly twenty minutes he continued to hold her, until finally the storm overhead began to pass. Grabbing a handful of toilet paper from the roll next to him, he tenderly brushed the tears from her eyes.
“I think the storm has ended,” Jerome said. “If you’re still in the mood, I’d love to see your tattoo. I’m afraid I didn’t get a very good look the first time.”
Esmé didn’t say a word as she climbed out of the tub and walked slowly into the bedroom. She sat down on the bed, and took off her jacket. Jerome followed her out of the bathroom, and joined her on the bed. She lifted her arms, and he slid the tank-top up over her head, placing the shirt on the bed beside her jacket.
Esmé’s stomach had folded over in the middle the way it had done ever since she had given birth, though it did absolutely nothing to interfere with Jerome’s view of her new tattoo. Taking his hand, he slowly trailed the tips of his fingers across the design on that incredibly soft skin.
“Did it hurt very much?” he asked concernedly.
“A bit,” Esmé admitted. “Every time I felt ready to scream, the needle would stop.” She paused. “Do you still disapprove?”
“Not at all, darling. By far, it’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever done for me. I just don’t like the thought of you letting someone else touch you there.”
“Relax, Jerome. It was a woman who did all the work.”
Jerome felt like an utter fool. He lowered his head, and kissed the area of Esmé’s stomach where her name was inscribed.
“I love you,” Jerome said. “And I’m an idiot for ever believing you would cheat on me.”
“Yes,” Esmé agreed, stroking his hair affectionately with the tips of her long-nailed fingers. “You are. But despite all your failings, I love you anyway.”
Jerome licked a purple grape located underneath his own name, and then slowly pushed his wife down onto the bed. “I don’t deserve you. Sometimes I wonder how on Earth you put up with me.”
Esmé didn’t bother explaining to Jerome how she had often asked herself that very same question during the earliest days of their marriage. Nor did he see any reason to explain to her his fear that she had allowed someone to carve the image of an eye into her stomach.
Esmé cupped Jerome’s face in her hands and squeezed gently, so that his chubby cheeks looked even chubbier. “Just shut up and kiss me,” she instructed, and he leaned forward to do just that.
The End
Reason for Editing: Had to add some things.