The corner (411) has the good restaurant, Le Joyeux Coq, the white neon and aluminum Modern restaurant, the pink, orange, and beige of a Dunkin' Donuts, and a thirties Art Deco masonry office building refurbished into lofts.
A gallery: Fidelity Shoe Repair: a yoghurt ice cream shop: a pizza joint with orange banquettes: the exhausted cement of a parking garage: an Indian restaurant.
And on the second and third floors over Le Coq,
Angel's brothel.
When I pass by, I look up from the street, and when the windows to the waiting room are open, the pink curtains sometimes lift and float out on the breeze.
It's cool, so those windows are closed; but tonight another window lights yellow: The short-haired, grandmotherly mama-san lifts a white square lid: to a top-loading washer? She moves to a counter: A taller girl joins her, her jaunty black crest gathered up in a spangly clip. They put their two heads together, and the mama-san lifts a round lid: Testing the rice in its cooker?
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The Corner[1],
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[7].
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 8/09/2004 07:15:00 PM
•
1 comments
"Qu'entends-je?" Annie asks. I unlatch my Swatch from my wrist, and toss it from the bed onto the wood floor—it slides into the foyer, out of earshot.
"I had
un client once, who"—she flutters her hand over her left breast.
"A pacemaker!"
"Oui!"
Now, I wonder if we had a translation problem: "ticker."
The knock sounds: Could you be the one who opens the door, not knowing who will walk through, or what needs they will have?
{280}
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 8/08/2004 01:08:00 PM
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0 comments
Meeting like this.
Bareback Annie lifts her mouth off me, plop, and raises her eyes to mine:
A thin silver spit strand runs from her lower lip to the plush of my head, parts:
Not silk's tensile strength: a bubble, but not morning dew.
{280}
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 8/08/2004 10:06:00 AM
•
0 comments
