Chapter 24

24

I am in Portland.

She approaches me like all he others, dropping a copy of the new book in front of me. I look up and slowly eye a thirty-somethingish blonde who a) is wearing a bit too much make up and b) has opened her blouse just low enough to expose the rounds of her beautifully accentuated breasts.

Biting her lower lip she also slips a folded piece of paper into my hand.

"You're my favorite author," she says in a breathy Marilyn Monroe sort of way.

I open the note.

Penned in all capitol letters, this sentence screams up from the page:
I want to make love to you.

Like an aging actor who has grown tired of the stage, I recite my lines according to the yellowing script. A pre-programmed response that has taken another piece of me with it.

"Sure," I reply, placing my pen upon the page. "Stick around and I'll see what can be done about that."

She is beautiful, elegant, charming and wise in her ways. But she is not heart stopping. She is not Jamie. Yet, I will wind up in bed with her, pounding away, her over-directed moans just loud enough to drown out my conscience.

This Off-Broadway play raised it's curtain hours ago.

I am staying in the nicest suite this particular hotel has to offer. The sheets have been turned down, our pillows properly fluffed.

We stagger into the bedroom, groping our way to the light switch, I flip it on, she in turn flips it off. "I like it better in the dark."

Don't we all?

I begin where she left off, unbuttoning the remaining few buttons on her blouse and removing her bra. She takes a seat on the bed, and fumbles to find my belt. In the dark we are amateurs, high school kids experimenting on prom night, our better judgment hazy with the addition of a stolen bottle of champagne. In the dark we are nameless, we have no one to answer to but ourselves.

My initial reaction turns to nausea, a basic need to purge my system of this toxic energy. I tell her that I will be right back and I stagger towards the bathroom.

I flip on the bathroom light and as my eyes adjust to the halogens I catch sight on an old man in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot with drink and his cheeks stained pink from her rouge.

Shouldn't I know better than this?
Am I not better than this?

Cool water hits my face and I rub my circled eyes. This baptism will not save me, I am a soul lost at sea.

"Richard, I'm waiting."

She says this with a candy-covered shell, a coating created to help the medicine go down. Heaving a chest full of air I open the bathroom door and take a longing gaze towards the complementary bar before I head to the bed.

In the bathroom light, which I absently left on, I can see the outline of her aging body. Floral patterns enwrap her arms and legs; her nipples are hard with anticipation.

"Say something wonderful."

I'm sorry sweetheart, I can't. My pen has dried, withered and limp is my mind. I remain silent as I remove my clothes and slide into bed with her.

She beings by touching me, caressing me, upon which, I feel no reaction. The blood in my veins has grown cold. Her mouth tastes of cigarettes and whisky.

I don't belong here.

There is no connection, no rise in temperature. The room around us freezes as my mind wanders home to Jamie.

She's made herself dinner, a simple meal of pasta, and is now settling down to write some poetry. It is uninspired, habitual verse. It means nothing more than another wasted piece of paper, but it keeps her company and reminds her of me.

Three glasses of merlot later she has fallen asleep on the couch, her hair lies upon the pillow like scattered leaves on grass. My first published piece of literature falls from her chest and lands on the floor properly, completely, and forever shut.

I lose her more each day and all I have to show for it is a flaccid penis and a name I'll never know.