The Unfinished Manuscript

When Carlos had first been informed that his darling was missing, he’d found it a relief from the tension their marriage had long endured, but now, after lying awake for hours trying to force himself to sleep in an empty bed, Carlos Santos yearned to hear Frank Salisbury’s dumb voice even if if the man was yelling at him and his heart ached at the memories they shared, both sordid and serene. He had called American Airlines and asked about Frank Salisbury. Apparently, he had arrived at the allocated time, yet Carlos’ voicemails remained unanswered, and no one knew the whereabouts of the famed author. After searching for the man for hours on end, Carlos Santos had finally given up, resigning himself to misery that was numbed, on some evenings, by Alexandra McQueen. When this occurred, Carlos Santos vacillated between regret, self-hatred, and enchantment at the woman’s goddess-like body, her luscious lips tasting of strawberry as he fell into her caress, smiling as he touched her long blonde hair. Alexandra McQueen: The woman. The myth. The legend. He had dreamed of making love to her ever since he was a young boy, and his fantasy had finally come to life. He would think to himself as he unbuttoned her silver-sequined gown and placed his index finger on her areola, rubbing it provocatively as he stared into her bright blue eyes as he stared into her bright blue eyes, smiling. She would giggle and demand that he lick her c******s before moaning with pleasure, and, sometimes, during these small moments of excitement, he would forget about the disappearance of his husband, if only for a split second. Alexandra McQueen, named Singer of the Year three years in a row, found escape when she caressed Carlos’ ebony skin, falling in love with the man’s love of freedom in all aspects. She cherished his state of mind—lighthearted, decidedly liberal, and extremely easygoing—far more than she cared for her husband’s oppressive views. With Todd Thompson, she always had to be the epitome of the perfect housewife, wearing tightly clinging red dresses and white high heel shoes, her hair done up in a ponytail, and a smear of crimson lipstick magnifying her docile smile, her large breasts pushed up in a lacy bra as she pulled a piping hot apple pie out of the oven. During the vice president’s events, she was to wear a dusty pink skirt suit, smile, and nod. He’d threatened to divorce her if she ever dared to voice her opinions, which were far more liberal than his—It was already hard for the man to swallow the fact that he’d married a pop singer, and her career was a constant source of shame in their marriage because he felt that her image inevitably tarnished his, despite the fact that she had won five Grammys for her work. When she was with her husband—the proud and still Todd Thompson—she refused to be anything other than a domestic shadow of herself in order to preserve a marriage that was—admittedly—primarily for the money. When she caressed Carlo’s locs and looked into his deep brown eyes, she felt free: She could wear leather corsets and spank him, playfully teasing him, and his pearly white teeth would gleam in the light as playfully spanked her and eyed her with more adoration than any man—including her husband— had as the two made love love between the sheets of the Heathman Hotel ub order to escape two unhappy marriages, stimulated by the forbidden nature of their affair. They’d managed to keep their affair under lock and key, lying that they had to rehearse late into the night at the recording studio for a decade and a day, both pretending to be happily married for each of their significant others; Frank too occupied with his manuscript to care; Todd too consumed by the president’s political campaign, to notice anything was remotely amiss with their significant others. Carlos Santos held out a joint. “Want some?” he asked, smirking as Alexandra stared at his abdominals, defined as hell, as his body was covered solely by a pair of faded Levi jeans. Alexandra took the joint and placed it between her lips, inhaling as she felt the buzz ring throughout her body. “I love you,” she whispered. Carlos flashed a grin, then put his finger across his sealed lips. “Alexandra! Don’t do this to me! You promised,” he begged. “You know I’m putty in your hands when you say that, and pretending we’re both single can only go so far, my love.” She smirked. “Fine, but you know it’s true Carlos,” she whispered in his ear as she caressed his abdominals. “Far truer than my sham of a marriage. The only reason I’m staying with that despicable fellow is for his money.” Carlos nodded, suddenly distant. Usually, he would tell the woman something he despised about his husband—half-true, half-fabricated, but he couldn’t bring himself to on this particular evening as they made love to one another in the Heathman Hotel. “How’s Frank?” Alexandra ventured, unaccustomed to the distance she saw in the rapper’s deep brown eyes. “He’s disappeared,” Carlos answered as he stared into the air, lost in thought.