Too Late To Love Your Mute Wife

The Williamsburg street market was packed with bodies. The bright morning sun reflected off the colorful canvas tents lining the sidewalk. Aubree reached for a small, brown cardboard box. She carefully picked up a lemon tart with a pair of silver tongs and placed it inside. She folded the lid shut and handed it across the table to a young college student wearing a backwards baseball cap. She smiled brightly, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and raised her hands to sign, Thank you. Have a great day. Cleo stood next to her, taking a five-dollar bill from the boy. "She says thanks, enjoy!" Cleo translated loudly over the noise of the crowd. Aubree wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. The thick gauze wrapped around her thighs rubbed uncomfortably against her jeans, sending dull spikes of pain up her legs, but she ignored it. Her chest felt light. At the far end of the street, the crowd began to part. A line of heavy, black SUVs slowly rolled down the narrow, congested road. In the center of the convoy was a massive black Maybach with a vanity license plate. Inside the Maybach, the air conditioning blasted silently. Godfrey leaned his head back against the leather headrest, his eyes closed, rubbing his temples. In the front passenger seat, Miles Mercer looked out the window at the market stalls. He suddenly stiffened. Miles turned his head slowly. "Boss," he said, his voice low and cautious. "I believe that is Mrs. Valentine on the sidewalk." Godfrey's eyes snapped open. His dark eyebrows pulled together in a hard line. He reached out and pressed a silver button on the door panel. The thick, tinted window rolled down halfway, letting the loud noise of the street flood into the quiet cabin. His eyes scanned the crowd and instantly locked onto the small folding table. He saw Aubree. She was wearing a cheap, stained apron. She was handing a box to a young man, and she was smiling. It was a massive, genuine smile. Her teeth were showing, her face glowing with a vibrant energy he had never seen inside their penthouse. A sharp, violent spike of irritation stabbed Godfrey right in the center of his chest. The muscle in his jaw began to tick rapidly. He watched as she raised her hands and signed to the crowd. People were pointing at her, whispering. To Godfrey's warped, manic brain, she was putting herself on display like a circus animal. She was dragging the Valentine name through the mud on a dirty Brooklyn street. His breathing turned shallow and fast. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a heavy metal Zippo lighter, flipping the lid open and shut with his thumb. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. "Do you want me to stop the car, sir? Have her get in?" Miles asked, watching Godfrey's knuckles turn white around the lighter. Godfrey let out a dark, cruel laugh. His eyes were entirely black. "No," Godfrey spat. "Let her keep selling smiles on the street. I want to see exactly how cheap she is willing to make herself." On the sidewalk, the hair on the back of Aubree's neck suddenly stood up. She felt a heavy physical weight pressing against her skin. She looked past the customer and stared straight at the street. She saw the Maybach. She saw the half-open window. And she saw Godfrey's eyes staring directly at her, filled with pure, unadulterated rage. The smile fell off her face instantly. Her fingers went numb, and she nearly dropped the stack of empty pastry boxes. They stared at each other across fifteen feet of crowded asphalt. Godfrey did not blink. He slowly pressed the button, and the tinted glass rolled up, cutting off his face. The Maybach accelerated slightly, rolling past the stall and disappearing down the street like a massive black shadow. Cleo bumped her shoulder. "Hey, you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost." Aubree's stomach tied itself into a painful knot. She shook her head quickly, forcing herself to look down at the table, her hands trembling as she rearranged the cupcakes.