Here is a quick sample of Moscow Down - Enjoy

Chapter 1Dallas, TexasRick I thought I was going to have a restful night’s sleep. But a slap on my arm changed that. I started to ease back from my brain void, getting stuck in that layer of not awake, and not asleep. I curled like a kid, conflicted between forcing a few more hours of welcome-home-honey warmth and the reality of another Saturday of work. Somewhere in my head, Laura’s voice, was saying, “Can I blame all of this on you? I could, you know. But…”I barrel-rolled between the sheets onto my back, leaning toward unconsciousness, my head went deep in the feather-down, where I fought the inevitability of having to get up. Saturday would come too soon; in fact, it already has. I cracked one eye open. “I agree.” Then an evil force connected with my ribs from the heel of a hand, with a power strong enough to make sure I gave her voice proper attention. “What’d you say?” “I’m trying to decide if I want to blame my miserable life on you or not. I pick yes.”I bunched the duvet in my fist, swaddling it close around my skin. “Whatever you’re talking about,” I answered, “I changed my mind. Blame yourself.” An early spring morning came through the window painting our North Texas bedroom a Fort Knox gold. Laura scooted herself upright with her back pressed against the headboard. Her knees were against her chest, arms wrapped around her knees, her frigging lit cigarette between two smoldering fingers. It’s strange how Saturday mornings somehow permit her to forget our agreement; that she would not smoke in the bedroom—period. Gray puffs fell like London fog over her bottom lip. It rushed toward me — a locust pestilence converging on my pillow. I swatted at it with my free hand, shoving random bits of the cloud back to her. “In a way,” she spoke again, “I do believe it’s because of you.” I glared at her. “Laura, would you put that thing out? I’d like to have at least one room in this townhouse safe for me to breathe.” Her fingers extended, pinching the damn hundred-millimeter anti-god, and swept it at obtuse angles toward the ceiling, dodging my hand. “You should never have let me take this job. I’m sure all of this is your fault.” She stiffened, appearing to be readying herself for our weekly battle. I flipped my half of the covers off in a quick move, passing it through the smoke and blowing it back in her direction. “You really don’t want me to sleep in,” I said. “Am I right? I had a tough week.” I stood, straightened my jammy pants so they were facing forward, and made a cow trail to the shower. Stepping out, dripping, and watching Laura’s image in the mirror, I could see her eyes were following me. Were they witnessing my aging process? I spoke louder in a more forceful tone, “What did I tell you this same damn time last Saturday about your freaking job? Quit it. Be free. Beyer can survive without you. God knows we don’t need the money.” We stood close to one another in the bathroom as she began undressing in the shower door where I had been standing. “Your scar’s bright red,” she said. “Are you gonna let the doctor take a look at it or not?” Checking what remained of the decades-old wound in the mirror, I found it identical to any other morning when I got out of the hot shower. “It’s the hot water.” Focusing to my scar was Laura’s way of avoiding our weekly argument about what Beyer is doing to her. “It’s been years since you got shot,” she said. “It shouldn’t still be doing that.” The war wound made its way onto my left shoulder long before she came on the scene, compliments of a British S.A.S. Staff Sergeant who either drew aim at the wrong person, ‘me being that wrong person,’ or acted totally beyond reckless and should have his pistol bullets taken away. I swear I could see the 9mm muzzle flash and could see the copper dot spinning my way, then sensed a hellfire burn as it split apart in my shoulder below the collarbone. And as quick as that, I was on the road bleeding for the looky-loos. I said to Laura, like last week and the Saturdays before, “They got all of the bullet out when I was in the hospital. I’ve been fine for years.” A pleasurable look at my wife’s body reminded me what a lucky stiff I’ve been all these years. Her Japanese kanji nightgown succumbed to gravity and slid down her tan skin to the granite floor tile. She stepped out and raised the silk present I’d given her to a hanger. “Even so,” she rebutted. “You should have the doctor take a look at it.” “There’s never been anything on my x-ray. If there were, Dr. Holden would have fixed it by now.” “Well, it’s your arm that’s going to fall off, not mine.” “Thanks for not letting the weekend pass without reminding me. Now—why don’t you explain why you refuse to quit that god-forsaken job of yours when it galls you so much?” She stopped the shower from running and showed me her wet body in the doorway, reaching for me to give her a towel. “Believe it or not, my good Mr. Ricky,” she declared, “I’ve moved on from that for this weekend.” I made way for Laura to step from the water. I tried to pull her lovely hips close to mine. But she whispered in my ear, “Not this morning, babe. It’s my time of the month, and you hate it then.” Still, her soft, warm skin against mine validated me. “Well…I wish it wasn’t so. But, then, nature doesn’t give me votes about that, does it?” She stepped around me, my towel now wrapped around her hair. I followed. She made her way to her closet, saying, “Let’s don’t talk about Beyer anymore. There’s nothing I can say. I can’t talk about my work the same as you can’t talk about your work.” “I’m not requesting you tell me any Beyer secrets. I’m only suggesting you tell them to f-off and put sanity back into your life.” A black and orange Picasso spring top over white shorts were her choices. She again changed our banter, “I’m not going to be here for my birthday, Tuesday. I have to go to Pittsburg for a lab conference.” I’m sure the lady next door could hear the disappointment in my voice. “A lab conference—for real? It’s your birthday. Fine. I’ll reschedule it for Sunday night. We don’t get to do birthdays anymore. We used to like it.” “Not tomorrow either. My flight out is tomorrow afternoon at 2:30. See if you can set it up for tonight if you want to celebrate.” Her hair towel came airborne toward me.****It was short notice, but I got two seats at Abacus Jack on Turtle Creek. Jack’s had been a private home straddling the creek until its present owners bought and reconfigured her. The lower level is restaurant dining, the second level, their kitchen, with a private culinary institute on top, or so it’s rumored. Laura ordered a roasted spatchcocked game hen, which came down the dumbwaiter, along with my Chilian Sea Bass over black rice and snow peas. “Your glass is getting low,” I said to the birthday girl. “Want another French 75?” The cocktail she loved had her gazing at the tree lights forming a tunnel above the creek and below us. “I would.” She smiled back at me with a forced-to-be-happy face. “My hen was pretty good,” she said. Translated in Texan, is the equivalent of, ‘I couldn’t possibly be more bored.’ I didn’t miss her pursed lips in the response. Maybe it was time to ramp up the party. I signaled for the Maître d’ to bring the birthday present I had left with him. If anything could save the evening, this would be it. Her long nails followed the edge of the brown wrapping paper like a knife. Folding the wrapping paper open, she winced at the oil on canvas painting I bought her. She laid it on its back and sat quietly across the table from me, examining it. “I see.” The Gauguin original was my most significant surprise ever. “Don’t you like it? I’m shocked. You like paintings so much. It’s Gauguin’s Queen and a Pipe he did in Tahiti.” My surprise gift was taking a nose-dive into the creek. She twisted her mouth to the left, continuing to survey the canvas and gilt frame. She stood by the table, staring down at it, continuing to be slow to respond. “Well,” she started. “Are we gonna start collecting oil paintings now…I suppose?” She missed a prime opportunity to display her pearly whites in gratitude. “No,” I came back, not to make it an apology but mostly to mask my hurt. “You like art. I hope you will like this one. I don’t know. Why not start a collection?” “I guess when we die, someone can sell it to a museum and pocket our hard-earned cash.” “As I said, I expected you would like it.” “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. There’s the case when something is so ugly it can still be considered art—this might be one of them.” “Ugly enough to be art? So then…you don’t like it?”She positioned it up in a chair at the adjacent table, her eyes roving, her fingertips tracing over the canvas, following Gauguin’s brush lines. “Yeah. It’s ugly,” Laura said. “Very. Very. The queen’s tits are younger than her face. Her legs are like crooked stovepipes, and she’s missing one of her pinky fingers. Then there are her feet. They look like they belong to Sasquatch. But you know what, it would look good in the hallway to our bedroom. So let’s hang it there.” She paused, and looked over my left shoulder, then said, “Did I tell you a man in Pittsburgh is setting up a party for my birthday on Tuesday? Would you mind if I accepted?”