Page 25 of The Hangman's Rope

He searched my face and nodded, pushing his seat back from the table and standing up.

He stepped away and went to the door leading out onto the porch, pausing near where he’d left his boots, and shoving his bare feet into them, or some other pair of shoes outside the door. I couldn’t see.

He went past the bank of living room windows and I heard the clatter of his footsteps going down the steps. I sighed and did what he’d told me to do. I carried on with the meal he’d fixed. It was good. Really good.

Chicken breast cooked in some sort of white wine reduction with mushrooms and, I think, shallots with a side of steamed broccoli and some mashed potatoes. Instant, sure, but I didn’t care about that. Tasted just the same to me and it was, as I said, delicious.

I worked on savoring my meal, and after several minutes, he returned, stepping into the apartment, leaving his shoes out on the porch, pausing in the doorway to look at me as though he had half expected me to abscond.

My assessment was proven correct when he said, “You’re still here.”

I smiled a little wanly and gave a weak shrug and said once again, “Where else would I go?”

He nodded and shut the door behind him, returning to the table to sit across from me. He picked up his fork and knife and we continued to eat in silence for a while.

It was comfortable. I think I was beginning to like the quiet. Maybe he was right about it.

Chapter Nine

Hangman…

I figured she was probably sick of watching video games, so even though I wanted to play and just zone the fuck out for a minute, I refrained and instead flipped through some of the streaming services I had until she made a noise of interest.

Of course, it was some period piece and by the looks of it, some kind of romance – but fuck it. She’d been through a lot and all it would cost me was right about two hours of my life. Granted it was two hours of my life that I would never get back, but I had my phone and could surf the internet or whatever.

I had to get her some of her own clothes. She couldn’t wear mine forever, even if she looked damn cozy in them.

“Are you sure?” she asked when I clicked on the movie that she’d voiced some interest in.

“Yeah, why not? Figure you’ve had enough of video games and shit blowing up.”

She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Wasn’t all bad. There was a good story in there. Kind of wanted to see what happened next.”

I laughed a little at that and shook my head, turning up the television as the show started in some idyllic looking, probably English countryside.

I pretty quickly tuned it out. I couldn’t follow all the flowery fucking language they were using to say the simplest shit. Like everything they said was somehow, some kind of way, coded and this thinly veiled or outright barb or demeaning putdown, but everyone acted as though everything going down was perfectly normal.

I didn’t have the patience for that shit. I’d punch somebody. Flip the damn table. Do anything just to get them to shut up and sit there aghast just for the pure entertainment of it.

I smiled faintly at the imagined looks on their faces while I opened up Google.

“You wouldn’t happen to remember your sizes for clothes and shit, would you?” I asked her, and she turned her rapt attention from the television screen as I paused it for her and, looking thoughtful, shook her head.

“That’s so weird, isn’t it?” she asked. “I can’t remember my own clothing or shoe sizes, but I can remember her parents didn’t want her to marry him years ago because he wasn’t good enough, and now that he’s here as a captain and they’re in financial distress, now things might be different.”

I smiled faintly and said, “Might be you just care more about the story than you do clothes. I can appreciate that.”

She blushed, and I laughed and said, “Guess the first thing we’re gonna need is measurements. I know somebody that might be able to tell me what to do there.”

I un-paused the movie and went back to my phone, opening up one of the messenger apps that was popular these days, and hit up Mini-Syn.

Madisyn: What’s up?

Me: You got that friend of yours handy that does all the fashion shit?

Madisyn: Valory? She’s right here, passing the phone to her now. What do you need?

Me: I need to know how to measure somebody to get their right clothes sizes.

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