I remember the color of the wood and the shape of the dining alcove and the way she looked lying across the table, dark hair flowing across the light wood and all that bare white skin. It was our first real place and we didn’t have much furniture and one night she lay back on our dining table. Ours was nicer than most, wood floors and a picture window and a little patch of grass outside shaded by one of those rubber trees with hard dark leaves and those long penile buds that tip pink. We were living in the San Fernando Valley, on one of those endless four-lane roads lined on both sides by tacky apartment buildings. Is this an omen? Have I made a terrible mistake? So what if it’s cold and rocky and exposed. I wanted her to go down on me and she refused and it felt like the moment in an old movie when a dark cloud floats across the sun. I was still inside her when I decided to ask her to marry me.Īfter the wedding, we went to a beach town and wandered along a deserted beach, high bluffs behind us and long stretches of absolutely empty sand to either side. I got a sweet little angel, I love the way she spreads her wings. So we went to bed and it was that warm kind of familiar fucking where everything feels right. Then one night we sat in the yellow kitchen talking and I felt a wave of peace and love wash over me and thought, What the fuck, man, are you crazy? This is a good thing you’re blowing here. I felt guilty for dragging her all the way to New Mexico and dumping her. I started dropping by just to check in, to make sure she was doing all right. She’d fixed it up nice, comfy tan sofa and warm yellow walls, pictures in frames. She was living in an old building in town. After six months I told her it was over and asked her to move out. But I don’t remember anything we did in that bed. When we lay on our bed, the cool night air poured over the rim of the window like water, falling to the floor and rising back up again, and sometimes cows would get through the gate next door and wake us by chewing the long grass outside the window. Like the time we were living in a small adobe cabin down a dirt road deep in a curve of the Rio Grande. This is the stuff that falls between, the stuff we never mention, the stuff we call life and forget. She was twenty-four and I was twenty-eight and it was the winter of 1982 on 110th Street in Manhattan. I remember moving in her and thinking, I could marry this girl. I remember cupping her small hard breasts in my hands when I entered her from behind and the way she drove hard against my lips when she came. Lately I’ve been remembering how her room was almost empty and everything was white, how the winter sun washed her slim girlish body in a cool marble light. To read every Esquire story ever published, upgrade to All Access. All the while, he still grapples with what to do about the broken state of his marriage.This article originally appeared in the February 2001 issue of Esquire. When Harry believes he discovers not only Delly's reasons for running away but also to where she was running in achieving her goal, he changes the complexity of the case solely from missing person to possibly smuggling, attempted murder and multiple homicide, which have far more inherent dangers to himself. He eventually learns that Arlene, who lives well, achieved what little success she had in the business by sleeping with the right people, and that the probable reason that she wants Delly back is that her daughter's sizable trust fund set up by Arlene's first husband, Delly's late father, is Arlene's sole means of support. Beyond the job itself, Harry can see that Arlene's motives are not motherly love. This revelation is bad timing for Harry as he starts on a new case, to locate two-week missing sixteen-year-old Delly Grastner for her mother, twice-divorced Arlene Iverson, a former bit actress. Although she still loves Harry, Ellen believes his work - especially having to do all his own legwork in his independent agency, as opposed to working for a larger private investigation firm - is overtaking his life and their marriage. What he thought was his stable marriage to high-end antiques gallery manager Ellen Moseby is not, when he finds out she has been having an affair. Harry Moseby is a former pro football player turned Los Angeles-based private investigator, who owns his own independent firm. Melanie Griffith as Delilah 'Delly' Grastner
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