Saying it all. . .

The stroke of the washcloth removes the last of the smeared mascara from around her eyes. She climbs out of the bath and watches the steam pour off her hips and arms. She feels cleaner and stronger than she did when she closed the front door behind her latest date, but the eyes that gaze out from the slightly fogged mirror look tired and faded somehow. Sighing, she gathers a soft towel around herself and ambles back into the bedroom to survey the wreckage from the hours past.

The smoke from old incense and snuffed candles curls around the ceiling. The sun sneaks around the edges of the curtains to shine on the empty wine glasses with small red circles drying in the bottoms. Wisps of silk and lace lingerie lay scattered about on the floor. The bed had lost all but its sweaty bottom sheet and a lone pillow that still retains the shape of his head. The plain white envelope on the dresser contains his donation to the maintenance of her life. And over everything is the faint musk of semen and sweat.

She pours the last of the bottle into one of the glasses, erasing the red circle, and sits in the room’s only chair. As she sips, she takes stock of her body. Her hips are slightly sore, just the tiniest bit out of place. There is a sore spot on her knee that she hopes doesn’t bruise too badly. Her jaw aches from overuse. All this is minor compared to the weariness that she feels in her soul. What had started as a quest to soothe and comfort had become a series of one-night-stands. She couldn’t be sure anymore if she provided anything more than a warm body. . .a sexual pizza delivered hot and to your door in less than thirty minutes.

 
She had to admit that there were some gentlemen who understood. They sought her out, not only for her passion, but also for her charm, her spunk, her wittiness. They asked for her counsel and honestly called her a friend. If she hadn’t met those gentlemen, she would have walked away from the whole situation ages ago. She smiles fondly to herself as she recalls a conversation where one of her dearest companions said he sought the services of girls like her as “the most time-and cost-effective means of finding a kindred spirit.” But her smile becomes a grimace as she ponders the sharp contrast of her most recent date. She would be surprised if he remembered her name.  
 

She drags herself out of the chair, leaving the towel behind. She starts to lazily move around the room gathering a corsette here, panties there, sheets, pillows. As she works, her movements become more agitated. . .quick and jerky as her angst grows. She piles everything on the bed and stands, her chest heaving, looking at the pile that her life has become. She just can’t look at it anymore. Just can’t think about it anymore. She pulls the elasticized corners of the bottom sheet off the mattress and folds it over the pile. Bundling the whole mess into the closet, she slams the door and braces her back against it. Sliding down to sit on the floor, she pulls her legs in tight to her chest and lets her head fall forward onto her knees. Hugging herself this way, she replaces each invasive image in her mind with love. Loving images and memories to strengthen herself . . .and as she does this, a wonderful idea forms.

 
Jumping up, she opens the door of the closet and grabs her trenchcoat. She slips her feet into a pair of shoes and is out the front door almost before the last button is fastened.
 

It takes only moments to walk to the news stand on the corner. The man behind the counter greets her in his cheery Persian accent. “And how is our Beauty today?”

”Better than ever, darling. . .better than ever!” she says as she picks up a complimentary catalog from the local community college and pays for a newspaper.

 
She takes her time on the short walk home. She’s reveling in the feeling of the sun on her wet hair and the steamy heat of still-damp skin under her long coat. Walking up her front steps, she is about to put her key in the lock when she looks up at the red lightbulb above the door. Impulsively, she swings her keys at it, hopping just a bit to be sure of the impact. She ducks her head quickly to avoid the spray of glass.

”Holy Shit” she giggles, as she dusts the shattered glass out of her hair and off her shoulders. She opens the door and strides in with her head held high for the first time in ages. The friends who need to find her don’t need the red light. And it’s time for her to start building something more solid than a pile of cloth.