Friday, September 26, 2008

Oder der verspottete Spötter

Madchen auf dem Diwan

Rose he from my bed, having slept long. His muscles were stretched and sinewed. He had risen from that kind of long and deep sleep that comes from, only from, ever from, a deep satiation of urges that have names, but not faces. In the dawn, those needs, unidentified, crush out the black moon of night. They are seeking sublimation.

His cruel profile was outlined against a bright blue and blur of green from outside, from that long long stretch that is in the heart of Berlin as Berlin as Berlin. Somewhere behind the clutter of trees and their leaves, was the Brandenburg Gate, beyond them a blue jumble of buildings whose profile stared up at the sky. I stared at his strong nose and jut of jaw, and then out at the blur of the world. It reminded my of a Klee that from 1930 that had copied twice to get the sweeping swinging smooth tangle of lines right. I fumbled for my glasses and settled them on my nose. He looked at me as if I was a strange species he had never seen before.

"You know, it is very strange."

I settled back my hair and tied it off with a small elastic band. I couldn' find my hair barrette or hair comb, though I remember distinctly the moment he had pulled the hair comb out as he pressed me backwards, and I slipped my legs up around his hips to pull him in. It is strange how things can just disappear, the focus of consciousness one moment, it's pewter shape and purple costume paste gem clear in my vision at that instant that he held it in his hand, and his eyes locked on me, dropped it. And the next. Oblivion.

Wait, it has to be on the floor. I dove down grabbed, let my body lie flat on the bed. I began fishing on the floor, even as I felt large warm hands caress over my skin, my hips, my back in ever widening swirls. I saw a look of surprise on his face when I rolled over and sat up with just the pull of my own torso. He clearly did not understand the wonders of flexibility that it was capable of, even as he had enjoyed several of them the night before. I sat to cross-legged, his face darkened by the strength of the light coming through the window.

I clipped my hair back with the barrette and wove my fingers to pull the elastic out at the same time. While both hands were working my hair, I let my body straighten somewhat but wiggle back and forth to aid in the endeavor gathering and clipping stray strands beneath the slightly brushed rough surface of the barrette.

"What's strange?"

He startled again, having assumed, I think, that he was not going to get a reply from the first question.

"Your skin, your. Your shape."

He paused and pulled his lips in. He was fumbling for words.

I got a wicked grin. I wasn't usually about the way I was about to be.

"Never had a chinese chick?"

He parsed the words, not exactly knowing I think my use of slang, but understanding the thrust of it.

"Yes, all the girls here are European."

I pulled a knee up and leaned over on the pillow, a hand supporting my head.

"I am an American girl."

His eyes followed his hand which stroked the flesh on the nearer thigh.

"Are you my girl?"

I looked at him.

"I don't belong to anyone."

He continued to stare at his hand rather than at me.

"That is not how it felt last night."

I smiled.

"You owned last night. And that's all there was."

His face was languidly unconcerned.

"I think there may be others."

"There will always be another night, other nights for you, other nights for me. But no other nights for us."

He stopped.

"I do not understand."

I turned and settled my feet on his floor. His floor.

"I am going to go now, and I am not coming back."

"No. Wait. Please."

"I'm sorry, that's all there was."

He tried to grab my wrist and squeeze it as I slide forward, but it was all too easy to turn and break out between his thumb and forefinger and pull my much smaller hand through.

"No. Why. Please."

But I had already bent over, gathered up both my velcro strap skirt, my undergarments, of and top. I was easy to settle one leg and then the other through the panties, and then belt the skirt around. I had an ornamental belt with a turquoise buckle whose stylized links were shaped like femurs. I simply stuffed the fishnet stockings in my purse, deciding mentally that they had acquired that one run too many to make them usable. The laconic nature of my motions were meant, in my mind, to convey coldness. But as I straightened up and fiddled again with my hair, I saw that he was again half way erect, his balls pulled in closer to his body, his glans waving like a half unfurled flag read to lead a cavalry charge to take the Mountain of Venus.

I didn't want to deflate what was going to be the last moment of flush between us. I stared into his eyes. I smiled with mine.

"Tschüss." My voice lilted. I saw him gain a moment of hope.

"Call me."

"Maybe. Tschüss." I turned my back as I said this.

Walking down the beige hall with peeling ceiling paint and lamps that were both ornate and off centered with plaster cracks around them, I felt a breathy exhilaration, with every step away from the door, which I left open, forcing him to lunge... I heard his heavy slap of feet on the floor... I felt more and more as if a wind was rising in my chest. I heard the door click close. I glanced back and saw the transome hanging open, and the severe dark woodwork, which looked now, more than when I had entered it the nigh before, like a forbidding tomb.

I turned away, my slightly elevated pumps planting easily on the carpet runner that ran down the wood floor, and was around the corner of the steps down before there could be...

"Please. Call me." I heard him call out from the door. I walked more quickly, the last thing I wanted was another scene. I had written the exit to this one.

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