Tag Archives: Quinn McGowan

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter seven, part one

“Rayne, got a minute?”  It’s Quinn, waiting for me by my desk for the second day in a row.  Her skin is wan and her smile is thin, tacked on with more than a dollop of willpower.

“Sure, Quinn.  Just let me grab a cup of coffee first.”  I go downstairs to get my steaming cup of java, then return to my desk.  I hang up my coat on the rack near my desk, then sit down.  After turning on my computer, I finally turn my attention to Quinn.  “What’s up?”  I had thought about it this morning and decided the best strategy for dealing with Quinn is to be pleasant but professional.  After yesterday, I have no desire to date her.  I am too old to be in a relationship with someone who obviously is in need of deep fixing.  When I was a teenager, I thought it was a sign of love to be willing to work on a person’s issues with her/him.  It is to a certain point, but Quinn’s problems go deeper than I have the patience to deal with.  I know myself well enough to know that it can only end badly.

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night.  It was atrocious.”  She pauses, as if to allow me a chance to contradict her, but I remain silent.  “I am so embarrassed that you had to see me like that.  It must seem like I have this huge eating disorder, but I don’t really.  I’m just dieting.”  Unfuckingbelievable.  I don’t know if she’s trying to convince herself or me, but she’s backtracking from what she said yesterday.

I tell her that I’m not going to debate the stupidity of dieting or discuss the nuances that differentiate between dieting and eating disorders, but in my opinion she’s crossed the bridge from the former to the latter.  She counters that every woman at least thinks about sticking her finger down her throat, which causes me to hoot in derision.  I stare at her in disbelief, but also in sadness.  Here is a bright, beautiful woman who thinks there’s nothing wrong with shoving her fingers down her throat after eating.  She blusters that it’s easy for me because Asian women are so tiny.  Her voice is rising and mine is, too.  I tell her it’s worse for Asian women because we have two cultures that revere thinness even though not every Asian woman is tiny.  I am considered huge by Taiwanese standards as my sister is so kind to point out as often as she can, but I do not even think about sticking my fingers down my throat.  It’s such an anathema to me, especially after loving Claudette.

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter four, part one

I wake up in a good mood which lasts until I arrive at work and answer the phone only to hear Inspector Robinson’s voice on the other end.  A phone call from the cops first thing in the morning, especially a Monday morning, especially a Monday morning at work, can really bring a person down.  She has a few more questions that she wants to ask me, she informs me in a brisk tone.  When I protest being disturbed at work, she points out that the alternative would be for me to come down to the precinct, which is precisely the last thing I want to do on my lunch break.  I hem and haw, but finally give in.  Even though I don’t want to be heard associating with the police, it’s the lesser evil which is exactly why the inspector brought up the point about me traipsing down to the precinct, I’m sure.

“When you and Mr. Frantz were outside, how long did you leave Ms. Bowers inside alone?”  Now that she has gotten what she wanted, the inspector can afford to be friendly so she warms up her tone a fraction.

“Um, five minutes?  No, probably longer than that.  Maybe ten.”  I tend to underestimate time, thinking less time has passed than actually has.

“And you’re positive that you left the bedroom after viewing the deceased before Mr. Frantz?”  She sounds as if she’s reading the questions off a list, which she probably is.

“I told you, I can’t be sure,” I say, lowering my voice.  I don’t want my boss to catch me talking on the phone to the police on company time.  “Look, I don’t meant to be difficult, but could we do this another time?  I’ll even come down to the station.”  I’ve changed my mind.  Anything is better than sweating it out over the phone, paranoid that one of my colleagues will overhear me.

“What a great idea.  Be sure to bring Mr. Frantz with you so you can both sign your statements as well, which, as you probably forgot, you were supposed to do yesterday.  Have a nice day, Ms. Liang.”  She hangs up before I can ask her where exactly is the station.  I suppose I’ll have to look it up on the internet.  I call Paris at home to relay the message, but he’s not there.

“Paris?  It’s me.  We have to go to the police station today to make our statements, and Inspector Robinson wants to talk to me.  Call me so we can—”

“Hello?  Rayne?”  It’s Paris.  I should have known he would be screening his calls.  He always does because he has too many complications in his love life to want to deal with them in person.  “What the fuck?”

“We were supposed to give our statements yesterday, remember?”  I am gloomy after talking to the esteemed Inspector Robinson.  She was all business on the phone, not at all how I imagined our next encounter would be.

“Damn it, I wish we were done with this!”  Paris says in disgust.

“Pick me up at four.  I’ll see you then.”  I am about to hang up the phone when I add, “Find out where the police station is while you’re at it.”  I figure since he’s not at work, it’d be more expedient for him to do it than for me.  We could probably walk if it’s in the Mission, but I’m not in the mood.

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