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My own secret life 
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My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground
I walk in my hide, walk naked from her rented bed through her hall to her efficiency kitchen, as if I were at home; as if I had all the time in the world; as if we were lovers. She, naked too, stands at the electric stove, lifting the edge of the pancake so the batter runs under: a single huge pancake, in the special pancake pane. I put the syrup and margarine on the kitchen table; her fridge, a Louis Vuitton invoice ("PAID") held to the door with a daisy magnet, was as empty as mine. On her desk, the bills, neatly arranged in plastic storage boxes; the family smiles from a seashell frame. A painting throws back light from the wall: A troupe of white-robed white-winged little girls with black-dotted eyes who, smiling, ply their gold harps, brass trumpets, bronze violins, copper drums, hovering high in white impasto: "Twelve." "I think I missed two."  "$750." Out the big window, the darkening city's grid glows. Naked, we walk down the hall. {300} Angel's Apartment: 1, 2, 3. 3 Comments:
Wow, darling you WERE gone for such a long while, but were all guilty of that every once in a while. By
Merci... By
Merci... All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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