Ladies' Man by Richard Price Page A

her flowers. I had never bought flowers for a girl in my life. I couldn't smell them because my nose was stuffed up from running around without a hat, but they were nice—orange, red and pale blue. Maybe I would bring flowers home as a matter of course. The new me.
    Out in the hallway I couldn't smell her, but my nose was so stuffed I wouldn't have been able to smell a corpse in a phone booth.
    The apartment was dark. Without turning on any lights I tiptoed down the foyer. The bedroom door was open. No lights on in there either. I soft-stepped to the bed and sat on the edge. "La Di?" I reached out and touched sheets. No La Donna. I hit the light on the night table. The bed was unmade. I tossed the flowers on the crumpled blankets. There was a note pinned to my pillow and my insides hit a bump: "i can't believe I let you walk out ON ME." First line and I felt a . flush of love.
    "I SHOULD HAVE KICKED YOU OUT. NOBODY EVER HUMILIATED ME LIKE THAT IN MY LIFE. I AM JUST AS ANGRY AT MYSELF FOR SITTING THERE AND TAKING IT AS I AM AT YOU FOR BEING YOUR USUAL SELF CENTERED SELF. GOODBYE."
    My first reaction was to get an "oh my God" disaster rush like I had received a telegram that I had cancer. It passed. Then I felt scared, as if she were hiding somewhere in the dark apartment waiting to pounce on me.
    "LA DONNA!" I barked, like, if you're out there don't fuck with me. I hit the overhead light switch in the bedroom. That gave me enough illumination and courage to dart into the living room and hit the switch in there. I screamed. What I thought was another person was my image in the living room closet full-length mirror. I'd forgotten about that mirror because it was on the inside of the door and I never used that closet. It was La Donna's, and it was pretty empty. As a matter of fact, the only things she'd left behind were her Frye boots and about six pounds of song sheets and music books. I didn't know if that was supposed to be symbolic of something but I just closed the door. Then 1 chained the front door. I took off my coat, draped it across one of the dinette table chairs, retrieved the flowers, put them in water and started to change the bed sheets. The vibrator still lay where I had murdered it. I got another rush of dread but I picked it up with a dish towel and dropped it out the bathroom window, plugging my fingers in my ears so I wouldn't hear the crash. It worked. I threw her letter in the garbage, fished it out and sent it for a one-shot flying lesson via the same window. I finished changing the sheets and checked the
Post
for the TV listings.
Death Wish
was on
Tuesday Night at the Movies
at nine,
the Honeymooners
at eleven and
Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia
was the cable TV homebox movie at eleven-thirty. Out of sight. The super had the heat coming up the pipes for a change. It was going to be a heavy TV night. But first, a little nappy.
     
    I woke up sweating like I'd just broken a fever. I whipped my head right and left searching for who knows what in the darkness, then flopped back and let out a cranky moan. There was no one in the world but me, and the world was my dark apartment. The digital read 10:40.1 hit the light on its lowest wattage, made it to my feet and squinted around the room for something to bring me back to earth. I turned on the TV. Two guys were bouncing up and down in the cab of a truck eating sandwiches and talking with their mouths full. I hadn't had any dinner. And I hadn't done my sit-ups. First things first I fumbled around the bed for my sneakers, got my barbell from under the night table and dragged my jockey-shorted ass into the living room. I did my hundred and fifty in the dark and went into the kitchen. I stared into the refrigerator spaced out, nothing really registering, absently fingering the muscles and ravines of my cast-iron, flab-free gut. The only thing with any potential was an unopened round cardboard of Swiss Knight cheese wedges, which I carried into the bedroom. It