Der Unglucksfall

By Guillermo Bosch

When she returned from Berlin after six weeks of incredible sex with a young unemployed East German bricklayer who lived off the dole while somehow managing lucrative real estate hustles, Alexandra had killing on her mind: a jar of thick, sweet homemade preserves for her diabetic husband's fifty-ninth birthday gift, and a warm weather cold to aggravate his chronic bronchitis. He survived the sugar, but the cold hung on throughout the summer and nearly did him in.

His survival annoyed her, so during the third week of August, Alexandra dragged him to the beach. The air was hot. The ocean was cold. He didn't want to go into the water. She grabbed his hand and told him they should run together through the towering waves crashing onto the beach. Just like in the movies. What could he say? She was so beautiful.

The first wave crushed him into the sand. The second filled his ears and nose with salt water. He wanted to leave the ocean, but she pulled off the top of her bathing suit and placed his hands on her large, soft breasts. She whispered into his ear. "I love the ocean. I love to get wet on you," her fluency marred only by her use of the wrong preposition.

Or did she mean what she said? He felt her hand grope his hardening penis, and he did love her breasts. He squeezed her nipples just as another huge wave hit the beach and tumbled him into the undertow.

He was drowning. Swallowing the sea. Pulled by the current. He was barely able to raise his hand in the air. But the lifeguard did see him. No thanks to Alexandra who had left the ocean and was trying to keep the lifeguard's baby blue eyes focused on her.

The lifeguard had said: "Are you with anybody?"

And she had said: "Not anymore."

But the lifeguard saw a man's hand waving just above the crest of another wave and he said: "We'll talk later. Someone is drowning," and Alexandra was terribly disappointed as the lifeguard grabbed his red float and ran into the ocean to save the man she did not want to see ever again.

He appeared exhausted and weak, ready to collapse, as they walked back to their beach house. She smiled and held his hand. She said: "It was so sexy to watch you get mouth-to-mouth against the lifeguard." Those damn prepositions.

Inside the house she smiled some more took off her cloths in front of him and invited him into the shower. He joined her and so she soaped his back, rubbed his shoulders, stroked his penis. He suckled her breasts.

Later, in bed Alexandra spread her legs wide as she lay on the edge of the mattress touching herself to arouse his then flaccid penis to grow again and perhaps send the blood rushing through his sagging body toward his groin through an overworked valve in his heart, through an artery clogged to breaking, through a prostate ripe for cancer, trying in every way possible to hasten his hoped for imminent demise. But, although he stood next to their bed gazing down on her, breathing heavily and sweating profusely, and, although his skin turned a distinctly grayish color and his eyes were bloodshot, he somehow managed to grow hard and thick and large and so there was nothing to be done accept bring him inside her, make him pump like the oil wells that dot the Baldwin Hills and hope for the best. But he stayed hard like that for one hour and forty-three minutes without any further signs of cardiac distress, so she faked an orgasm, got out of bed, slapped a lesbian porno DVD in the player and let him finish himself off while she took another shower. Alone…so she could wash her hair, shave her legs and mons, luxuriate in the hot water and dream of her nights with the bricklayer and the day her husband would finally die.

She tried wine and cigarettes. That evening she served a bottle, or was it two, of a Napa Valley Merlot with lard dumplings, well marbled boiled beef, red cabbage drenched in brown sugar and strudel – apple, cheese or plum – with an excellent twenty-year-old Sonoma port.

He said: "I never knew you were such a good cook."

She said: "I remembered a few things. From my Grossmutter."

"The one with four husbands?"

"Ja. That one." She leaned back in her chair and stretched, emphasizing her figure. "I would like a cigarette. Would you like a cigarette?"

"Sure," he said, "what harm could one cigarette do?"

Alexandra rolled fat unfiltered splits of black tobacco. One cigarette became two, three, four. He coughed. He wheezed. He gasped. Another glass of port dulled the pain in his chest. Yet another suppressed his cough reflex. A third had him tearing off her red silk Gap t-shirt and her thigh-high faux leather mini, her Victoria Secret push-up bra and the Hello Kitty thong underwear she bought for a one euro out of a sale bin in an Eastern German supermarket.

They sprawled on the cold hard floor. His head was bouncing off the terra cotta Mexican tiles. Her breasts were bouncing to and fro on her chest. His aching back screamed for relief as she road him like she road the mechanical bull down at the Union Station Steak House on the night before she left for Berlin. She wanted to break him down. She wanted to permanently tame this gnarly bucking animal thrusting his heavily veined organ up between her smooth, toned, sculpted long, lean legs. But he was a feral beast dedicated to running free who would never die at the waterhole. And so she rolled away exhausted before he stopped bucking, and she had to complete their coupling with a hand job lubricated by the lard from a dumpling which had fallen onto the floor during dinner.

"Thanks," he said before he passed out on the tiles.

She took the opportunity to make a cell call. Long distance. To Eastern Germany. And she giggled and sighed while her husband snored. She told the bricklayer she was bored, but she couldn't come back until she completed her killing spree. So he whispered a few Sex machen Worte to hold her in lust until they could be together again. And she came under linden trees searching for mushrooms eating thick, sweet berry jam.

As the summer faded toward fall, Alexandra grew desperate. The man simply would not die. If anything, he grew stronger and more aggressive, more appreciative but more demanding. He wanted her 24/7 and she wanted him -0/-0. Something had to give and she was determined it wasn't going to be Alexandra.

Since ancient times, the Gods have always smiled on great beauty, and so they favored Alexandra on the assumption she would later favor them with at least a quick roll in the clouds where they could release a thunderbolt or two. She prayed for heat. And so the Gods delivered. They sent the heat.

Now, it never gets hot at the beach. Never. But, yes, never say never. It was hot. Really hot. How hot? Let's not go there. Suffice to say the husband was sweating even more than normal. His craving faded. His cupidity subsided. He barely moved and he spoke not a word. Alexandra was free of him, and convinced the end days were near. She set up a tent on the balcony to protect herself from the sun and talked for hours on her cell. Heat on heat. It felt sweet, and neat to be bis über die Ohren verliebt sein again. And so she literally put her head over her heels and decided sex felt really good that way too.

A new plot hatched. They would go running together. In the heat. "To get you up to shape," she told him.

"Do you think that's wise?" he asked.

"Ja, ja," she said as she stripped down in front of him to give him a great shot of her delicious bottom and shaved mons as she changed into her micro mesh running shorts and sports bra. He tried to touch her, but she pulled away from him. She smiled. "Ah, so, let's go, mein Schatz."

He felt ridiculous. He looked ridiculous. He was ridiculous. Her long powerful strides. His short choppy steps.

She built up a one hundred meter lead before she stopped to rest. She leaned over. Short of breath. Something wasn't right. She felt lightheaded, disoriented. She saw him in the distance, still moving toward her. Slowly. But moving. "Ich werde das nicht ertragen. I cannot let him catch up over me," she gasped. Even in crisis she couldn't get the words quite right.

He saw her fall. He approached her. There she was, sprawled on the path, a perspiration varnish made her skin glisten, her shorts rode up between her cheeks, her wet-from-sweat bra revealed extended nipples.

But her eyes were dull. Her breathing short. Her pulse weak. She was, however, alive. Not dead. Time to call 911.

They took her to the Little Company of Mary Hospital. Alexandra with the nuns. If only they knew her secret mission, the nuns might have let her go right then and there. But they did their best, the Gods did the rest and soon she was back with the living.

"Das kotzt mich an!" she muttered to herself, and she was, in fact, really pissed. "Why me? I am young and beautiful and strong. He is old and ugly and weak. But he grows stronger and I… Keineswegs! If we're both meant to go, he's going first."

The young, handsome Indian doctor who cared for her told Alexandra to rest and take it easy. She smiled sweetly and replied that she would "take it any way I can get it." Like most immigrants, the doctor's command of American slang lagged far behind Alexandra's and so her flirtation was lost on him. She considered a more direct approach. Her mind was willing, but her heart was weak. So she settled for an appreciation of his smooth dark skin and his long narrow fingers when he examined her, touching her here and then touching her there.

The nuns suggested she might try prayer, or at least thoughtful meditation. She considered their suggestion and tried meditation but she couldn't shut out her random subconscious thoughts which strayed to the various methods of assassination employed by radical Austrian mystics fighting against the Caliph in the 12th and 13th centuries. These fantasies only increased her lust and her blood pressure jumped to a near fatal 193/117. So she focused on simple murder, her blood pressure dropped back to 130/84 and a certain calm descended upon her restless nature. Alexandra knew her task. It must be completed.

She left The Little Company of Mary on the day the heat broke and the on-shore breezes returned. She decided his death had to be by car. His pride. His joy. That little red monster that did 0 to 60 in under five seconds. Alexandra hated that car almost as much as she hated him. Now she would get rid of both. But what to do?

She called Berlin. The bricklayer was mechanical. He would know. "…ein tödlicher Unfall. It had to be fatal." But he didn't know cars. He was only good at laying…bricks.

What to do, what to do? She put on her tightest blue jeans and a bare midriff lacy thing, She had dropped a few more pounds in the hospital, but her breasts were still full and her bottom round. She looked good. Certainly good enough for Teddy, the one-eyed, snaggle-toothed mechanic who had rebuilt her white BMW 2002 coupe so it looked new and ran as smooth as the soft skin of her underbelly. Men. Teddy would know what to do.

And he did. Not at first. He was working on a battered Saab convertible. He hemmed and hawed. He considered this and then considered that. Alexandra leaned over the hood to give him a better view of her. He had an idea. He stepped back from the Saab. He walked around to her side of the car and brushed against her jeans. He had a better idea. She backed into him and swayed slowly left and right. Teddy was finally inspired.

On the evening of the first day of the Autumnal Equinox, the smog enhanced sunset was especially brilliant orange-purple-and-red beautiful. Alexandra deemed it a good day to die. But not for her. For him.

The car was prepared. Washed, waxed and polished. Sitting in the driveway.

She said: "You seem tense. Why don't you go for a drive, mein Schatz?"

"I will," he said. "wanna' come along?"

"Nein," she said. "You go on alone. I will be ready for you when you get back." She actually winked when she said that. No shame at all.

She walked him out the door and stood in front of the car to wave good-bye. For the last time. She pursed her lips and blew him a kiss. He started the engine, slipped the shift into reverse and the little car leapt forward at full speed (0 to 60 in less than five) crushing Alexandra against the garage door.

" Weshalb?" she said as blood trickled down her chin. "Why me?"

And those were the last words she spoke on this earth. The husband cried for three days and three nights. He wore his beige jacket and chinos to her funeral because he didn't own a black suit. The bricklayer went back to laying his bricks. And Alexandra left, as they say, to a better place where the Gods, as they had planned, were free to have their way with her.

Of such willfulness are small tragedies concocted.

Source: www.sauce*box.com