Penthouse Bound

1

In a tiny ground-floor apartment on the edge of the city, Ariel Selim lounged in bed, a mischievous smile on her face. In her pink teddy, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders, she lay propped up on a thick pillow. Her arms lay on the pillow, her palms open to either side of her head as if she had just surrendered.

Well, she had, but that was earlier.

Now the light yellow sheet was pulled up to just below her breasts. Her left leg was straight, her toes rippling the sheet as she flexed them, feeling its cool texture. Her right leg was bent, the sheet sloping away from her knee. She peered past the slope at her husband.

Matthew Selim had been up for about twenty minutes. He had popped into the shower, then come naked back into the bedroom and toweled off in front of the folding closet doors. He was lean and well-muscled, and his wife of six months appeared to enjoy looking at him as much as he appeared to enjoy showing off.

He dropped the wadded towel on the foot of the bed, then went to his chest of drawers.

Ariel giggled. Matthew had walked right past a set of french doors that were all window. The doors opened onto their back yard, and the blinds were wide open.

He paid her no mind. They’d had that conversation a week ago.

2

A week ago, giggling, she had asked, “What if someone was watching, Matthew?”

Without breaking so much as a smile, he had replied, “If someone was watching, Ariel, that would mean they were in our back yard. And if anyone was in the back yard without permission, they wouldn’t deserve the consideration of closed blinds, would they?”

She had nipped at her bottom lip with her teeth. But she hadn’t voiced her thoughts.

So well-reasoned. So perfectly well-reasoned. So smug, and so perfectly correct. And about as exciting as a dull thud. What if the person in the back yard was a killer, Matthew? How smug would you be then?

Of course, there was no reason to complicate matters more than they already were.

But she made a few phone calls that week.

Sometimes a lesson was necessary.

3

As Ariel continued to watch, Matthew took a pair of black Adidas low-rise briefs from the top drawer and stepped into them and pulled them up, then adjusted everything.

His almost non-existent love handles flexed slightly as he opened the third drawer.

Ariel frowned. That drawer is t-shirts, right? He is considering which color to wear.

She played a game: He would select the darker blue. The darker blue was always a good choice. It went with most everything, and most of the time it would be concealed anyway, or all but concealed.

He took a dark-blue t-shirt from the drawer, then opened the drawer above it to retrieve a pair of low-cut white socks.

Yes, always the white socks. And if I say anything, he will remind me they are hidden by his shoes and pants anyway.

He closed both drawers and pulled the t-shirt on over his head. Then he sat on the corner of the bed and bent to tug on the socks.

This time his broad shoulder blades flexed, flattened, and flexed again.

Meh. Nothing all that special.

Finally he stood and crossed in front of the french doors again. He opened the closet.

What if an assassin is waiting in the closet, Matthew? Or behind you? Is that impossible?

She extended her right index finger toward her husband, cocked her thumb, pursed her lips and made a quiet popping sound.

“Diid you say something?”

As Matthew turned around, Ariel flexed her right hand. “No. Nothing.” Her elbow bend, she lay her hand on the pillow next to her right ear, palm up.

The right three-fourths of the closet was filled with Ariel’s hanging clothes on two rods, one above and back a little to fit her dresses and gowns, and one below for her slacks and blouses.

Matthew’s hanging clothes occupied the left one-fourth of the closet. Three business suits—boring grey, boring brown, and boring blue—and three white dress shirts hung on the far left. He had worn the suits in rotation when he worked in the mailroom, and then during a brief stint in the warehouse.

Ariel rolled her eyes. He is looking at those off-the-rack suits again. He thought himself witty and innovative because he wore them even while he worked at the warehouse.

But his stupid college buddy owned the stupid company. He had probably promoted Matthew to keep the real men from stomping his smug butt. Right-wing prick.

4

As he looked at the suits, Matthew smiled at the memory.

Everyone else in the warehouse wore jeans and sneakers and t-shirts with weird sayings on them. Everything from a Trump MAGA shirt—Matthew agreed with the sentiment, but he drew a line when it came to selecting his wardrobe—to something celebrating that bandit, Che Guevarra. That was more to Ariel’s taste.

Castro was featured too, of course, as were Russian President Putin, Chairman Mao, and even Venezuela’s Nicolás Maduro. Ariel’s the one who should have worked at the warehouse. It was a socialist paradise. She would have felt right at home.

Well, except there was no eye candy for her to check out down there. No beefcake.

He stretched both arms high over his head to stretch his arms and shoulders. He spread his fingers, then clasped his hands together up there before lowering his arms again. That would give her a little show on his back.

Although the other workers were all about Matthew’s age, all but one were overweight. And that one was nothing but skin stretched over bones. He also had the sores and pockmarks of a crack smoker. He’d be gone after the next drug test. They variously also had scraggly, unkempt beards and stringy, greasy hair, always worn loose or in pony tails or man-buns. Ways to show their individuality, probably. Ways to stand out and be noticed.

Then there was Matthew Selim, the fortunate Miss Ariel’s young, virile husband. Slender and doe-eyed, clean-shaven with just the right amount of five-o’clock shadow and conservatively trimmed dark hair. And always dressed in a business suit. Seriously, who would you hire?

And that was kind of the point, wasn’t it? To advance in the company?

Except for maybe the crackhead, all of those other guys were still working in the warehouse. Well, if they hadn’t been fired.

Hey, if you really want to be noticed, wear a suit to pick and pack and prep for shipping.

Of course it probably didn’t hurt that his buddy Mark Severidge owned the company, but Mark would never show favoritism.

5

Next to the business suits hung his jogging suits. He smiled as he considered them. They were his uniform in his cool new job. He had nine of them so he wouldn’t risk slipping into a repeating suit-of-the-day habit. Each was in a different pattern and color scheme.

Ariel rolled her eyes again. Finally he is picking out a jogging suit to wear. He thinks they are cool. Why in the world did I ever think he was cool? He had bought nine of them, for Petes’s sake! And from the look on his face, I am sure he considers delivering a soliloquy every time he looks at them. Get on with it!

But he won’t. He will caress them first. Then he will think about which one he would like to wear. Then, finally, maybe, he will make a selection.

Matthew let his fingertips slip from one jogging suit jacket to the next and the next. Finally he selected the royal blue with the alternating pink and turquoise stripes down the sleeves.

Ariel squelched a grin. I knew he would pick a blue one. He picked a blue t-shirt. The man allows his underwear to dictate the color of his clothes for the day.

Matthew took the suit from the closet and held it up. Yes, this way the dark blue t-shirt will be part of an ensemble, not something that I would feel self-conscious about.

He removed the jacket and pants from the hanger, put the hanger back on the rod, and closed the closet door. He held up the jacket again by the shoulders, took a step back, and bumped the corner of the bed.

Ariel shook her head. It is just as if you didn’t even know the bed was even there. Duh.

Matthew frowned, glanced down and back, then looked again at his jogging suit. No matter. Soon we will have a larger bedroom, one of ample size. And ample closet space, for that matter. Soon we will be able to afford a whole new place.

And we will buy, not rent, but not farther out. None of that suburban ranch-style house stuff in a neighborhood rampant with screaming children.

Matthew and Ariel disagreed on almost everything—from politics to whether the borders should be secure to which movies to watch—but they agreed vehemently on the topic of children. Neither of them wanted any of the little monsters, ever. So why would they want to put up with other people’s children?

To celebrate their conscious decision to live their lives for themselves, they had even gone out and bought his and her life insurance policies. Five million each.

Matthew smiled at the sweetness of freedom. “Remember our goals, Ariel? To live the high life, no kids, no worries, right?”

She smiled too. “Right.”

“‘Cause hey, life is a gift. It’s something to be lived, celebrated, and enjoyed—not sacrificed to children, right?”

Still smiling, she said, “Right.” Or husbands, you klutz.

6

Balancing on one foor and then the other, Matthew pulled on his jogging suit pants without sitting down.

Ariel watched as one thigh and then the other flexed in concert with his sinewy back muscles and shoulder blades. Sights like that used to excite me.

Matthew didn’t notice, beyond having exaggerated his flexibility on purpose. He was still thinking of the future. Maybe the near future.

He and Ariel would move in and move up. That was the other thing on which they had agreed. They both loved the energy of the city, not to mention the convenience. They would buy the best three or four-bedroom condo they could afford, and the higher in the building the better. Eventually, they would work their way to the top, literally. If Matthew Selim had anything to say about it, and he certainly did, he and Ariel were penthouse bound.

With that smug thought in mind, he sat on the corner of the bed and slipped his feet into his sneakers, first the left then the right.

As he bent at the waist, Ariel’s toes wiggled against his lower back through the sheet. “Got time for breakfast?” She giggled. “Or maybe a repeat performance?”

He grinned and turned his head. For a moment, he even made eye contact. “You know, maybe I could manage a little—” Then he spotted the clock on the headboard. “Ooh! No, sorry, Ariel. I didn’t know it was that late. I have to get going.” He bent to quickly tie his shoes, then stood, pulled the jacket on over his arms and zipped it up. “I’m not late yet, but the clock is ticking.”

Typical. But she only murmured, “You have no idea how much.”

He looked back, his brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, what?”

She smiled. “I said will you be available for lunch?”

He bent, quickly kissed her on the forehead, then turned away. “I’m not sure. I’ll call you by 11 to let you know if I can get away.”

She cringed, but she forced a smile just in case he turned around again. “Deal. And unless you want to come all the way home, let me know where to meet you.”

7

Matthew chuckled. On his way through the door he said, “I’ll do that. See ya.”

Ariel loved dining out, but she preferred meeting him at whatever restaurant instead of getting together earlier and arriving together. He had never asked her why, but he suspected meeting like that felt a bit clandestine to her. Like she had her own little private fantasy going on and he was only an unwitting participant.

In the bedroom, Ariel shook her head. He is such a moron. Yes, call me by 11. Let me know where you’ll be so I can have my friend meet you.

Matthew always picked a crowded, noisy diner or café, never a quiet, classy restaurant. But for this meeting, that would be fine. In fact, all things being equal it would be ideal.

The lunch hour was the busiest time of day in such places. And he would arrive early, as he always did.

Ariel’s hired man would walk right up to the table, erase the mistake she had made six months ago, and walk out during the ensuing confusion.

From the short hallway, Matthew’s smug “I love you” filtered back to Ariel.

Part of her wanted to respond, but that would just be silly.

“I know,” she said quietly, then giggled and snuggled down into the pillow.

*******