The Unfinished Manuscript

Detective Richard Jansen drove home in his Ford pickup truck to Huntington, New York.

He parked and got out of his vehicle, his short grey hair slicked back. He wore his jeans with a black blazer over a white t-shirt. His black Oxfords were polished to perfection.

He unlocked his door and entered his humble abode.

He liked it out here. It was smaller: a wealthy town with well-educated people. People left well enough alone for the most part.

If only...

If only his wife of 30 years, Elaine Jansen, was still alive.

As he walked in, he laid his eyes on black and white portraits of her, with her short black hair, pearl-white teeth, and pearl earrings. She liked to wear black shirts and jeans with matching pearl earring and necklace sets.

He still remembered when they'd first gotten married, and she had been the epitome of love, light, and laughter, glowing from head to toe.

Tragically, Elaine had died in a car accident as she was driving home from work: She'd been a school teacher in Manhattan, New York City, barely scraping by, but they'd managed in this smaller town with his detective job for years.

Elaine hadn't wanted children, so the detective had no one to keep him company, mourn with, rage with, or cry with.

A lump formed in his chest as he stared at his plain, silver wedding band, still secured to his left ring finger.

I could never love anyone like I loved Elaine. Never again.

Loneliness enveloped the small home, though it was spotless, always: the dishes cleaned, the floors swept, and the refrigerator stocked.

He was a man who enjoyed simplicity and despised wasted time.

The only messiness was in his home office, where he worked on his cases after hours.

There were often papers scattered about as he pored over evidence, but even then, he often put them into piles and placed them in his desk drawers before company arrived: He didn't want Candy to see them. He had a sneaking suspicion that she was nosey, and he knew she wasn't the best person in the world, but she was a distraction.

A distraction from the emptiness that was his home life.

He slipped off his wedding band, kissed it sentimentally, placed it in his desk drawer, and called her up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, handsome," a voice answered flirtatiously on the phone.

"How much is it for an hour?" Richard Jansen asked gruffly.

"That'll be $90."

"You're worth it," he said, half meaning it.

Candy was a high-end prostitute: someone who sold herself to men like him. Old men who were lonely and were so desperate they would willingly spend their hard-earned money on company and sex.

Jansen knew nothing was in it for her except the funds, but he didn't care.

His heart sunk as she walked through the door, blonde hair cascading down her elegant shoulders, her lips caked with crimson red lipstick, her eyes painted with dark blue shadow, and her body dressed, barely, in a tight black dress that went above her knees.

She was wearing bright red stilettos, so as to attract him.

"Glad you could make it, Candy," he grumbled.

Without speaking, he led her to his bedroom where he undressed her.

He then kissed her lips, picturing his wife to no avail, and attempted to make love out of an ordeal which was nothing but transactional.

He could feel her waiting to be done with it.

Finally, after the sex was over, he pointed to a stack of cash on his bedside table and muttered, decidedly matter-of-factly, "Thank you for your services, Candy."

"You're very welcome, sir." She responded sweetly, taking the money and practically running as fast as her high heels could carry her out of his home before she got in her car and drove away.

Richard Jansen sighed.

Somehow, the emptiness in his heart had only grown, yet his body did finally feel remotely excited, which hadn't happened in a long time.