Viewing the local antiquities

And she must lie in it 

"How was your week?"

"I travelled."

To London, but on business, and with the pound where it is, no money for whores. No money to check out the "Champagne Rooms" in Soho (a girl sits with her back to the window, Tina stencilled on her shirt). No money to walk through the nameless door at the top of the stairs on a Chinatown street (New model printed in black magic marker on a paper card pinned to the door, just as I saw it 10 years ago).

I'd brought Angel back a postcard of the Houses of Parliament gold crennelations at night, thinking Di was too much, Buckingham Palace imperial, and Big Ben too much like she might imagine I see my cock. Proof I was there, and not lying to her.

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"I haven't been in my apartment for a long time, so it needs to be cleaned. It has a's'."

I think she's trying to say ants, means roaches, No, please not that...

"What did you say your apartment had?"

"Ash!" Naked, she goes to the mirror over the nightstand, rubs vigorously. Her belly shakes, and her tits.

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"Not a talking dictionary! To learn English, you must learn how to spell!"

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The mama-san knocks. "Thank you!" calls Angel, already off the bed.

She collects the wet towels. I kick the mat for the customers' shoes so it aligns to the wall again. She makes up the bed, deft, brisk like a nurse: tuck: tuck: tuck: tuck: Tugs the sheets tight, pulls up and smooths the thin blanket, folds down the top sheet, straightens the pillows; hip-thumps the bed back to the wall:

Ready for the client who is not me.

"Does it feel like home?"

She hasn't put her uniform on yet.

I swoop down and cup her cheeks, hoist her as if my linked hands were a swingseat: her legs round my torso fly open, splay out:

"124 pounds!"

I forgot to give her the postcard.


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All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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