Mad About Murder

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As she fell, she had reached out with her left hand and had grabbed the sleasy green mesh curtain. The bathroom was small. She lay on her back, her scuffed feet spread, almost under the sink. Her head was cocked at what he felt was a ridiculous angle, because the wall was in the way and she had doubtless struck it as she fell.

He stood in the doorway, his feet braced as though against the tipping of a world, and it was indeed his world which tipped and threatened to project him out into an unknown darkness.

The small bathroom had a fearsome clarity about it. Six inches from her right hand, the green plastic handle of a trick toothbrush with small tilted head gleamed against the cheap marble finish of the black linoleum. By some odd chance, the toothbrush had fallen parallel to the long line of her robed body and the head was slanted at the same abrupt angle as hers.

Small sounds intruded. The gurgle of the thin stream of water running down the sink drain, the metronome drip of the damp end of the shower curtain, a distant car squealing its way around too sharp a corner, a far-off and misty bellow of a tug in the harbor basin. Night sounds.

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