Karma

By Nicholas Chittick

In the middle of the day, she lay naked upon the unmade bed, smoking a slender cigarette as her lover dressed. The aroma of peach-scented candles and lust mingled with that of burning tobacco as echoes of passion faded from her like ripples dissipating on a millpond. She brushed a lock of hair from her face and looked up at him with a knowing smile. He smiled back. A conspiratorial silence passed between them. Her husband was not home.

"Do you have to go?" she asked, wanting the answer to be yes.

"You know I don't want to, beautiful, but I can't miss it. If it goes through, it'll be a year's pay for a couple months' work."

A tactful lie: he had nowhere to be. The deal of which he spoke was already sealed, but it was a handy excuse and impossible to argue against; the all-important business meeting. He was through with her for the moment, and she with him, but they were civilized people and, therefore, made the pretense of enjoying one another's company when both knew it was only sex they truly desired. Neither acknowledged this reality openly, of course. Constrained as they were by mutual politeness, it remained unspoken, tucked safely behind the veil of civility.

He buttoned his slacks and sat next to her on the bed, then reached for his shoes.

"You were incredible, as always," he remarked.

"You weren't too bad yourself," she replied, playfully raking her fingernails across his back. He had almost given her an orgasm. Almost. She had had to fake it, but had done so convincingly.

"I'll call you later," he said. Another tactful lie.

"You better."

He leaned over to kiss her, a quick peck, then was gone.

He stepped from her apartment building into the afternoon brightness, in stark contrast to the dim, candlelit bedroom. The city was alive, vibrant, a sea of anonymous humanity that ebbed and flowed in a perpetual transitory state. Chaotic and random, people hustled on the busy sidewalk, horns honked in traffic, vehicles jockeyed for position; the city's inhabitants were on the move.

He found his place amid the flow and fell in step with those around him. His mood was exceptional, his ego stroked, his ardor satiated. When he reached the end of the block, he was smiling at recollections of his sexual prowess as he stepped off the curb.

He did not see the car that struck him.

He sailed uncontrollably, twisting and somersaulting through the air, with only a split second to wonder what had happened before his head smacked the pavement with shocking ferocity.

Broken and motionless, he lay as pedestrians moved in close, some wanting to help; others, simply curious: horrified, but too intrigued to turn away. Life fled him quickly, and after a brief while, his injuries ceased to bleed.

She was about to step into the shower when the telephone rang. Altering course, she walked naked into the bedroom and snatched up the receiver, hoping it was her lover, perhaps to offer some form of welcome flattery.

"Hello?"

"Lisa, thank God you're home."

"Oh, hello, Tim," she said, masking her disappointment. It was only her husband.

"Just listen a second, will you? Christ, I can't believe this is happening!"

"What is it?" she asked, suddenly alarmed by the panic and urgency in her husband's tone.

"I can't believe it. I've just been in an accident down the street here, and... dammit, he came out of nowhere. Jesus help me, Lisa, I think the guy is dead!"