I refer to this piece as half poetry, half storytelling and half crazy. Since there is a poetic element, I’d like the flow to be consistent down the page (or screen, actually, in this case). Thus present preamble to take the intro past the picture of the scholarly-looking gentleman on the right (your left).
A hotel bar late of an evening.
Walnut paneling, muted recessed lighting.
The second she entered, I knew.
She was my fate.
Pink silk scarf, black dress, low-scooped neckline, front-end loaded.
She had the same physical equipment as other women, only more of it.
Hourglass figure set to chime at midnight.
Teleportation in a million stages.
Molecules scurried and scattered.
The ordinary pulled back on either side.
A handful of lonely drinkers gawked.
The barkeep poured a tall one.
First merry clink of glass on glass.
Heady aroma of perfume, alcohol and stale cigarettes.
I waited quietly.
Several sips in, she wished to talk.
My specialty is listening.
“How ya doin, hon?” she asked.
She spoke of boyfriends, old flames and losers.
All submerged in dollops of disappointment.
Blame was apportioned, doled out, heaped on, then retracted.
A hard edge gained from experience.
But sweetness nonetheless.
Lost in a maze, searching for insight.
We drew closer.
She kissed my neck.
Her breath a warmth of exhalation.
Under fingers’ touch, quivers of excitation.
Rouge full lips, cherry sweet and cool,
Left a tiny blood-red residue.
It was her signature.
I was marked.
Do with me what you will.
She said she was a mystery writer.
But a hack. Experience was what she lacked.
“Would you mind if I killed you?” she queried.
A throaty laugh.
My first real shudder.
She liked stories noir.
I was living one.
She jumped to celebrities and fake fame.
Too much mediocrity.
And sordid games to hang onto whomever’s notice.
A lament for Hollywood’s glory days.
Rock and Ginger, now those were names.
“Wanna go to my room?”
Not a question, a suggestion.
Like I had a choice.
Her words were melting.
Some phrases never ending.
Her magnificent walk now unsteady.
The ride up on the elevator was heavenly.
Clinging in a needy embrace.
Dubious looks from other passengers.
Not to worry.
Anticipation ruled my emotions.
Disembarkation and last crooked paces.
Left behind, disapproving faces.
Key card inserted into lock.
We were in.
A neutral space.
Privacy. Intimacy. Another drink.
The loving progressed in phases.
I was past half spent.
I’d been on the shelf too long.
True to her word, she consumed me.
Still no let down.
Snicker snoring marked the end.
Drapes pulled back and sunlight blinding.
She’s up and gone.
No, I don’t think so.
Wouldn’t have missed it.
But here I lie.
Exhausted and empty.
Kaput, finished, at journey’s end.
Dead soldier in recycling bin.
Another of Ma Seagram’s wayward boys.
Resting now in languorous longing,
Look forward to recounting…
this bottle’s tale of night’s delight.
Let’s take a short break and celebrate an important birthday for me, in A Beatles’ Legacy.