A Purpled Affair

By AA Lagrimas Jr

Dive into the intoxicating narrative of 'A Purpled Affair,' where the world of glamour intertwines with the enigmatic realms of passion, obsession, and dark mysteries. Roxanne, a captivating model in her mid-20s, has achieved fame and beauty but lost her passion along the way. Alone in the heart of New York, yearning for a deeper connection, she stumbles upon Ethan – a visual artist trapped in a web of an unconventional marriage.

Central Park becomes the stage for destiny's dance as Roxanne and Ethan's lives collide in a fleeting encounter. Drawn to Ethan's captivating charm and his unique blend of hyperrealist-surrealist art, Roxanne succumbs to a passionate affair that awakens emotions she never deemed possible.

Yet, the tale takes a sinister twist when Melissa, Ethan's dramatic and enigmatic wife, emerges as a shadowy presence in Roxanne's life. Melissa stalks her with eerie persistence, invading Roxanne's personal space with chilling intent. As the mystery deepens, Roxanne confronts the inexplicable and the threatening, struggling to comprehend the truth behind Melissa's actions.

Choosing to flee with Ethan, the couple seeks refuge across a lavender farm on Long Island, only to find themselves trapped in a nightmarish pursuit. Roxanne's flight through the ethereal purple haze of the lavender fields becomes a desperate bid for survival, as the boundaries between obsession, madness, and reality blur.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350923117

Book preview

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This is a work of fiction.

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously.

Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination,

and any resemblance to actual events and places or persons, living or dead,

is entirely coincidental.

Copyright ©2023 by AA Lagrimas Jr

ISBN: 979-8-35092-310-0 paperback

ISBN: 979-8-35092-311-7 ebook

To Tatay, whose storytelling skills I inherited.

To Nanay, my number 1 fan.

Contents

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

THANK YOU

I’m Ethan

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

I’m Ejay

Naomi Here

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AA Lagrimas Jr is a global citizen

and lives the austere lifestyle of a pilgrim monk

while writing elevated commercial fiction.

THANK YOU

David Paul Kirkpatrick

Richard C. Morais

The Story Summit fellows

The Villa Villains of 2019 Write Away Tuscany

The Adlawan-Descargar Family of SimiValley

Edward Terry

Cherri Randall

Isabel Pettibone

I’m Ethan

Death is on my mind as I sprint across Central Park until I collapse on my knees. I roll over the moist browning leaves by the side of the running track that encircles the Jacquelyn Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. Even when my lungs are desperate for air, I hold my breath and think about what if I die today, stop breathing right now?

A ringing in my ears makes me dizzy. My face feels swollen. My vision becomes patchy.

I gasp for air while feeling the cold earth and the dead leaves on my back. I stare at the sky. The clouds move and slither. I try to imagine them as living beings, parading their shapes, constantly shifting from one moment to another. As the rays of sunbeams breaking through the dying branches above me blur my vision, I sense someone approaching. I feel the light vibration of footsteps hitting the ground against my slowing heartbeat. A woman appears in my peripheral vision. I wait for her to pass by. She slows down and stops before me. Statuesque is the first thing I notice about her while she blocks the sunlight warming my face.

My heartbeat picks up again at the sight of her. The woman’s silhouette, the blending of all the lights, the shadow and shape, the tinge of warm red that envelops her, all such airy details I wish I could put on a canvas right now.

Are you alright? the woman asks, with a subtle foreign accent.

I bring myself up and grow dizzy at the sudden effort. The woman extends her hand to help me. I take it. At that moment, as I spring from a deathly position to my feet flat on the ground, I feel a sudden jolt of electricity in my hands. The static rattles me like when I groped the metallic knob of our front door earlier this morning.

It’s this woman. Probably mid-twenties, the scent of tropics in her, maybe a blend of coconut and some flower, lavender maybe, makes me forget the season is in full swing. Her dark red tracking suit defines her tight and shapely frame, confident of her curves in all the right places. The long black hair crowns her with a shimmer under the morning sun. Her face blushes in the cold air, the skin every bit supple and smooth. But what floor me are those rare lavender eyes. They sparkle with genuine concern as she tries to figure out if I am all right and asks again if I am okay.

I immediately feel connected. It takes kindness to know kindness. She’s a kindred spirit.

Despite the enlivening discomfort of the static we shared, I realize I’m still holding her hand. She withdraws. Awkwardly. Something loosens from my finger as my hand breaks free from hers. But I couldn’t care about anything else.

You have no color, she says. You should get yourself hydrated.

I nod. I smile. I think about what to say next.

The woman walks away. I watch her, anxious that she will disappear from my eyes into the pathway ahead and never see her again.

I’m Ethan, I shout, like a little boy craving for a crumb of attention.

The woman stops, turns around, and waves at me with a curious grin.

I wave back at the woman and that’s when I realize my wedding ring is about to slip off my finger. I suddenly feel embarrassed. That harried imposition of my name in the air to get her attention must have sounded like a pathetic attempt at flirtation. The woman disappears into a bend in the path. I stand there with the weight of a wasted moment.

Maybe she’ll come back, introduce herself back, and find my racial mix intriguing. Maybe she’ll sense I’m the kind of guy who bumps into her while rushing down the subway escalator, says sorry along with a contrite smile and a melancholic, uneven sag around my eyes. Maybe she’ll find me good looking enough to gravitate towards me and realize there’s something else apart from this odd charm, that there’s a child-like harmlessness in my nature I wear like a breastplate. Maybe the shield and armor she has built around herself from years of walking the streets of New York will come off ready to trust this tall and lean of a scruffy human being.

So, I wait in the cold.

But the cold stares back at me with the empty promise of an early morning haze.

I walk back home, taking every step with a complete vision of that woman in my mind. She looked confident, self-assured, but there was a glow in her lavender eyes that made me feel she’s trying to light her way in the dark, fumbling for the road that might lead to redemption. Had there been a chance for us to talk further, to arrange and see each other again, for coffee maybe, she would probably share bits and pieces of her life with me, and I would of mine to her. I’d tell her I too pride myself on being kind, even when I understand that the world is mostly cruel. She would know I’m a gentle creature whose eyes always digested things around me with fascination, a penchant native in me as a conjuror of visual chaos on canvas. I would explain this is the talent I used early in my life to both connect and distract myself from the world. But none of those matters right now.

The woman is out there, about to continue living a life separate from mine. What kind of life, I’ll probably never know.

Chapter 1

The club’s dance floor is packed.

No matter how disparate the bodily movement to the music is, everyone shares the same bass drum pounding on their senses. Many of them are here to be seen. They dress up cool, sexy, shake off everything real about their lives and project a filtered swag in their glitzy photos and videos. All for a host of emojis and likes on their social media accounts. Some of them just need the company. Solitude is not the place to be on a Friday night like this. Yet, that’s what the woman feels as she swings her hands in the air, as her shapely hips sways to the music beat, as her sweat moisturizes her face, with the club lights alternately making her pop in and vanish in the dance floor while shimmering in her slinky red dress that hugs her body as if she was born with it. She dances with everyone, yes, but really, she’s all alone.

At a little past 2 a.m., the woman sits by the bar finishing a drink. She feels someone nudge her from behind. A drunk guy slips away towards the front door when she turns around.

She catches a chill, so she rubs her arms and notices she has goosebumps. Someone’s watching her. She knows it. She surveys the rest of the bar behind her and spots a shadow standing near the dance floor. It retreats out of her line of sight when she catches on to him. This worries her. She waits. But the peering eyes are gone.

The woman dismisses it. She’s had some gin tonic to spice her spirits up and she is not going to waste that kick by being paranoid.

She’s a beautiful woman. Guys will look at her the way they always did. There are those who will be shy and quickly look away and there are those of bolder breed who will take every chance to fill their eyes with the sight of her beauty even after she catches them. Men objectify women. It’s the truth she lives by in her business.

The woman hears somebody laugh loud. She turns her attention to a stocky mid-thirties white man with Middle Eastern features two bar chairs away, working his whiskey with obvious delight as he becomes chatty with the bartender. He’s wearing a pair of John-Lennon-shades at that hour of night, probably trying to make himself look cool, the woman assumes. The man, from what the woman hears, took his citizenship oath earlier that day. He’s celebrating his becoming American, which in this age of global connection means shit, the man claims, but he’s giddy that he was finally able to change his name. He says a name should be something a person gives himself, not his parents or anyone else, so he can go about life introducing himself to the world with utmost confidence because it’s a name he likes, a name which echoes who he is. Every man’s trouble starts with his name because it’s not really who he is but spends most of his life unconsciously trying hard to become it.

The man turns to her. Do you like yours? he asks.

With that pair of shades, the woman is not sure if the man is talking to her or someone else behind her. But she admits that was a good segue to a pickup line, not cheesy at all. She smiles and prepares to leave.

Yes, she says. I like mine. Then she walks away.

Roxanne. That’s the name she goes by. For as far as she can remember, that’s the name that was built into her, no nickname, no alliteration. She hates any endearing attempt to call her Roxx or Roxie by anyone. Roxanne has always been the name she used to get by in the world, it will be till the day she’s gone.

She heads to the rest room. Just as the door opens and another woman walks out, a sudden pang of anxiety hits her. A lump in her throat. Roxanne finds it hard to breathe. She retches and hangs her head before the wash basin, but nothing comes out. She blinks. Her lavender eyes feel the sting of the late hour. They’re itchy and she knows her eyebags are swelling. Roxanne avoids looking at herself in the mirror. She doesn’t think she will appreciate how she looks right now. She’s a beautiful and sensitive woman who should value her worth. But her self-esteem has hit rock bottom. Her supposed fun date tonight was a no-show. A male model she met in a photoshoot stood her up and explained in a text message he needed to attend to something important. Apparently, Roxanne is not important. It made her sad. What made her sadder is an hour later, she saw a friend’s Instagram photo with the same man. But what’s even more depressing now is realizing that she anchored her day’s happiness and self-worth to the company of a perfect stranger when she’s got bigger concerns about her life to worry about.

Out of the club, Roxanne walks along the dead ambiance of Broadway heading south under a black trench coat. She questions this aimless stroll. But there’s really nothing on her calendar the next day. She’s been suffering from bouts of insomniac rage that leaves her existentially anguished. She’d rather be out and moving than be back infinitely restless in the solitude of her own apartment.

As she reaches the 911 Memorial area, she catches that familiar chill and these damn goosebumps. She is positive someone is watching her. Again. She is out on the street, practically alone except for a couple of homeless people sprawled on the sidewalk. Roxanne turns a corner and walks on until she has no idea where she is. Or maybe she does. But what does it matter knowing exactly where you are if you have no clue where you’re headed?

By daybreak, Roxanne sits on a bench in a quiet corner of the Brooklyn Bridge Park. It is the middle of autumn on a chilly Saturday morning. The sun barges into the world with the light of day, its temporal presence a reminder to Roxanne that while it gives warmth, it is indifferent to her plight. Whether or not she survives the day, the sun’s going to be here again tomorrow, giving that photogenic bridge an early morning glow.

Roxanne watches the surface of the river. The glimmer blinds her momentarily while she thinks about her life and what’s in store for her. The mere thought of things to come already scares her.

She is a model who’s had plenty of prospects, but nothing solid on the present plate. Roxanne knows she is at the end of her rope career wise not because she’s ageing, but because she’s lost every bit of passion for the job. Every gig her agency forwards to her attention becomes a tired idea even before she considers it. Modeling is already faking it. Faking it further is going to leave her with no dignity. So, her life’s prospects beyond this are really the big question in her mind right now.

Where is she going? What is she going to do? Is she going to just wait for the universe to open new doors for her? What kind of monster will swallow her beyond those doors?

There is something about waiting for the unknown to unfold that is entirely macabre.

Roxanne emerges from the subway and turns towards 32nd Street from Park Avenue. She heads towards the direction of 5th Avenue and passes by a burger restaurant after crossing Madison. It’s a block like any other block at the heart of Manhattan—a street oppressed by the towering structures around it, every business rushing with adrenalin to survive the rules of economics. Like the beauty salon across, this trendy hotel here, the wine bar there.

As she approaches the building where she’s staying, she turns her attention to a shop at the front of the building whose signage spells out the letters, big and bold, to the word psychic.

Roxanne stops by the curb right in front of the shop and surveys the interior.

No one’s inside. But the idea tempts Roxanne.

She’s been thinking about her future for a while now and the psychic who owns the shop claims she has the power to unlock what’s in store for those who want to know. But really, can any mere mortal see through the chasm that separates the present from what’s coming?

Foolish? a woman’s raspy voice speaks. Or brave?

Roxanne catches the whiff of cannabis in the air as she spots a woman wearing a shiny flower-printed bandana around her head, seated on the building stoop as if she owned it. She puffs on a joint while watching Roxanne with big brown eyes unsettling as a lemur’s. She could be in her fifties, pale as a corpse. Ember from her joint drops into her tattered denims, she nonchalantly swipes the ash off her pants making her oversized yellow sweater jiggle. She takes another hit. Roxanne sees her cheekbones poke from under her wrinkled skin.

Roxanne looks confused as the woman points her stick towards the psychic’s shop.

Those who want to know their future, she explains. It’s usually one of those. Foolish or brave.

What’s the difference? Roxanne asks as she steps towards the woman.

Foolish are those who don’t need to know the future, she says. They’re not gonna do shit about it anyway. All they’re willing to spend is some loose change because they’re curious what magic tricks ‘em psychics can do. She pauses. Brave are those who know something horrible is coming their way because of the choices they made. She leans forward to make sure Roxanne catches her wary eyes. Yet they need some sort of validation.

Roxanne throws a glance at the shop. A tarpaulin sign hangs by the window advertising what the psychic offers—palm, tarot, and soul reading.

This woman is totally baiting her. How much is a session? Roxanne queries.

The woman laughs hard. The effort irritates her throat. She coughs out a spurt of smoke.

I don’t know what’s funny, Roxanne says.

I’m not her, she says. I wish I had the audacity to charge people twenty-five dollars for twenty-fucking-minutes of—she gestures a pair of quotation mark with her fingers—consultation.

Oh, Roxanne feels embarrassed. I’m sorry.

Don’t be, she says. It’s the bandana. Put a fuckin’ crystal ball in my hands and I might as well hijack the place.

There is something unnerving about this woman that makes Roxanne curious. The woman’s definitely hardened, quite usual for a New Yorker. Yet there is a transcendence to her that is remarkable. Like a thin mist surrounding her person. Roxanne can only wish she had this woman’s bearing when she was younger. It would have done a lot of good in her profession.

Your shoes will be the death of you, the woman points to Roxanne’s black stilettos.

The woman’s right. Roxanne’s right heel feels wobbly since the train ride. Probably from all the walking she did. She hops on the stoop and sits from across the woman, removes her right shoe and realizes the heel is indeed loose. Roxanne takes the other shoe too and heaves a tired sigh while she feels the soles of her feet tickled by the biting cold of the graveled step.

She unexpectedly enjoys the sensation.

The woman offers Roxanne her joint. You want a puff?

Roxanne shakes her head. I won’t mind the second-hand smoke though.

Sure, she quips and blows a fine circle of smoke at Roxanne.

She feels the woman’s big brown eyes crawling on her skin like a spider.

Do you have the letter X in your name? she asks.

Roxanne does not remember introducing herself. What makes you think that? she asks.

You look like the kind who would have that letter in her name, the woman explains.

I look like the kind.

The woman shrugs. It’s an exciting letter is all I’m sayin’, she explains. Meanwhile I have boring letters in my name. Well, the H is a bit stimulating, but put it at the end of a name like Sarah, the whole thing suddenly sounds pretty basic.

She blows Roxanne another round of second-hands.

Sarah with an H, Roxanne emphasizes.

Another minute into the conversation and the shared cannabis smoke between them, Roxanne learns the woman is Sarah Amesta, a temp clerk doing weekend overtime work in a trading company on the 11th floor of the same building. She tells Roxanne the trading company could be a front for something dubious. But I didn’t say that, she whispers.

Then she yelps out with a pleasant surprise and a snappy clap when Roxanne introduces herself. I’m right! she exclaims.

X is not an ordinary letter to choose for a guess but then hey, both of them occupy spaces in the same building, so Sarah might have heard her name being called, maybe by their Korean doorman. That’s what Roxanne assumes. Or…

Maybe you’re psychic, Roxanne teases.

Maybe I am, she retorts back and throws a glance at the psychic’s shop. You know the bitch is a quack.

Roxanne gives the woman a challenging stare. You ever went inside?

Waste of fuckin’ twenty-five bucks is what it was, she replies. "She’ll ask you to hold out your hand. She’ll appear to look at you like she was born with the fuckin’ x-ray machine in her eyes seeing things she believes she only can