The Slide

A short story

The Woolworth Building. Photo from Wikicommons.

“He’s coming.” Melinda jumped out of bed, landing soundlessly on the pinewood floor as if helium filled her veins and feathers lined her feet. “Hurry, get dressed.”

“Who’s coming?” John asked, his words a whispered jumble of broken, barely audible sounds. He glanced at his gold Patek wristwatch and then asked what time it was as he looked at his watch again. 

“It’s a quarter past four o’clock. As for the who—that’s my husband.” Melinda hurriedly gathered John’s clothes from the floor, holding them against her naked body.

“Could you lower the clothes a little? You’re hiding your breasts, and you have such beautiful breasts.”

“There’s no time. He’s in the elevator.”

“You’re married? You didn’t tell me you’re married.” 

He looked around, but  didn't see any men's clothing, shoes, or anything else a guy would have—just ladies' items. John rushed through his blurry memory. No shaver in the bathroom, only one toothbrush. 

“Neither did you, but you are.”

“How did you know that? I didn’t say anything. Did you Google me?” John rubbed his eyes, scratched his chin, and felt for the wedding ring he was sure he had removed before sidling up to this gorgeous woman with long, black hair and perfect face and body at Serendipity Bar. 

Maybe I have a wedding band tan line. 

“We can talk about spouses next time—”

New York City was quiet, save for a distant siren and the deep, dull rumble of trucks, tranquil enough for him to hear his raucous heart beating against his ribs. A handful of lights from the apartment building across the street accompanied the full moon that illuminated Melinda’s bedroom. Light reflecting from the antique dressing table mirror to the left of the bed silhouetted her, making her skin shimmer, and giving off a mirage of transparency. For an instant, John saw through to her bones. 

He blinked to vanquish the illusion. 

“There will be a next time?” John scratched his chin again. He wasn’t certain about that. Sure, she was hot and adventurous, but half the fun was hooking up with a different woman each time. He’d have to think about whether he wanted a permanent side piece. He scanned her nude body slowly, noting his growing arousal, hoping that she could see him, too, and thinking about the choice he’d have to make. 

“There won’t be a next time if my husband walks through that door and you’re still here. The elevator ascends one floor a second. We’re on the fifty-third floor, meaning the apartment door will open in no more than twenty-four seconds, so you have to get out now!”

“Twenty-four seconds?”

“Now twenty-two.”

John was going to ask, “Does he have a gun?” or “Is he a linebacker?” or something along those lines to gauge his ability to fend off what was to come. 

Where the fuck can I go in the next twenty seconds? There’s no way out except through the front door, and it’s too late for that. Fuck, I’m not even dressed.

Melinda passed him the bundle of clothing along with his shoes. “You’ll have to get dressed later. Take the slide. Nobody will see you naked at this hour. You can put your clothes on when you get to the street.”

“The slide?”

“The slide at the window that’s there for just this purpose: an emergency escape for paramours.”

She’s done this many times before. 

John frowned. “Wait! What? A slide that goes down fifty-three stories?” He stood on his tiptoes and peered out the double-hung window. “I don’t see a—”

Melinda put her hands on his hips, turned him toward her, and kissed him. It was a short, deep kiss. Her naked body was warm and sensual against his, as if her soft lips touched him everywhere from his feet to the top of his head. When she ended the kiss, sparks flashed across her lips, and John’s mouth tingled as if he’d drunk a glass of just-poured champagne.

He looked toward the window again. “There it is.”

“There it is.” Melinda opened the window fully. 

A gust of cold November air chilled John. Goosebumps erupted along his arms. He eyed the bright red slide that corkscrewed from the window to the sidewalk far below. Mist from nearby steam vents gave the impression that the slide passed through a cloud as it neared the street. “Oh, fun!” He sniffed his shirt, which smelled like jasmine, like Melinda. John stretched one leg through the open window, then the other, and sat on the ledge for a moment before he propelled himself forward, shouting, “Wheee!” 

Detective Harlan Gibbons waited until 7 a.m. to start ringing apartments in the Woolworth Building to interview residents about the dead body on the sidewalk below. The building, constructed in 1913, was sixty stories tall, though the top seven floors were for mechanical and other functions. It had been the tallest building in the world until 1929. 

Seven o’clock was a good time, Harlan thought. Most working people would still be at home, and for those who might be asleep when he rang, an early-morning wake-up wouldn’t kill them. Besides, he often got the best information from people in a groggy condition.

He began with apartment 53A, one of the four penthouse units.

A tall woman with long, black hair and opal eyes, wearing a sea-blue dress and a necklace of simple pearls answered the door. He held his police identification at eye level. “Detective Harlan Gibbons, NYPD. May I ask you a few questions?”

“Of course. Would you like to come in, Detective? I was about to brew coffee and would be happy to offer you a cup.” 

She flicked her eyes toward Harlan’s nearly empty Starbucks cup.

“Yes, thank you.”

While Melinda prepared coffee for them in her kitchen, Harlan circled the expansive living room, admiring the view of Manhattan—one of the most breathtaking he’d seen in all his police years—and taking note of the many antiques and vintage furniture throughout the apartment. An 1830s flintlock, single-shot, .54 caliber pistol lying atop what looked like an even older bureau caught his eye. Is she in the antique business, or does she work for a museum?

“It doesn’t work anymore, which makes it legal if that’s what you're thinking,” Melinda said as she reentered the living room.

“Beautiful weapon. I imagine it stopped functioning long ago.” 

He picked up a small, sepia-toned photo in a silver Deco frame. “Your grandmother?” 

Melinda smiled. “That’s me.”

“A costume party?” Harlan turned the photo around again. Standing on either side of the woman in the picture were two men in double-breasted suits and fedoras, their arms interlinked with her. The woman, who looked like Melinda, wore a black flapper dress with stars and sunflowers on the lace part that dropped just below her knees.

“Not a costume party.”

Melinda swiftly skipped toward Harlan, her lips parted, a promise of a kiss a fraction of a second away.

Harlan stepped back and braced his hand against her belly. “That would be inappropriate. I’m here on police business.”

“Pity,” Melinda said. “I would love to kiss you.” She shrugged. “Another time, then.”

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If you enjoyed this story, I think you’ll also like my story, Crossing the Line.