Thursday, 15 March 2012
Tremble like a flower
She leaves the room turning slightly that doll of a head she wears to offer him a warm yet guarded smile. A lot older than she looked last night, he thought. He sits on the bed and lights one of her extra longs. He looks at his whiskey soaked face in the wardrobe mirror and sighs heavily.
He walks into the hallway where he watches her through the semi open toilet door, peeing; She looks over to the sink and curses for some reason.
She has a coughing fit. Spits something vile between her thighs into the bowl.
There is not much paper.
A bluebottle fly lands on her knee and stays there unnoticed.
He thought about the Bowie song they played at the bar last night. The lyrics ‘if you should fall into my arms and tremble like a flower’
He didn’t know why he thought of that particular verse. He didn’t care much for Bowie. He didn’t care much for music. He didn’t get it. Didn’t understand the dancing, the singing along, and the idol worship. But those lyrics ‘if you should fall into my arms and tremble like a flower’
She wipes between her legs and flushes.
He walks back to the window where he sees an old lady with a cane crossing the street.
The late morning sun shines bright through the lace curtains window the old girl makes it to other side of the street. He smiles.
The sunlight gleams on his face making him momentarily unrecognisable. A phantom
He sits in silence beside her on the bed. Sex followed by breakfast that only happened with his ex wife. Burnt toast and marmalade followed by a dose of rowing- how we gonna pay the rent this month?
I’ll get a job.
How many times have I heard that hey?
The interview went well yesterday.
They’re gonna call me back.
Yeah’ she would say’ yeah, when chicken have teeth’ She was French strange expressions but nice accent. That’s why he fell for her. Her accent, her perfect way of touch, her caress, soft gracefully moving hands. Her neck. Her back. And when she smiled.
‘Hey’ she calls. He ignores her. ‘Was I good’. She asks once more revealing a bit of skin through her opened gown.
‘Yeah’ she repeats. ‘Yeah’ ‘I was good’ she says exasperatingly. They sit in silence. She blows a blue thin line from her cigarette before stubbing it out.
‘So what’s your name then?’
He lies. Well it was a name they called him at school all those years ago. They teased him with it and it was not even his name. But it stuck so he chose to use it from time to time.
She laughs and repeats his name again and again shaking her head in disbelief. But it’s cute she says
‘you know why they call me Rita don’t you?’
Hayworth. Rita Hayworth, some people say I look like her. I do a bit. What do you think?
‘Yeah. I suppose you do.’
She did a bit.
She removes the belt from her dressing gown and lassoes it around his waist. She calls his name. Playfully she brings the belt up towards his neck pulling him towards her. Again she calls his name in a seductive manner whilst tugging at his neck. He struggles a little. Her gown apart and breast revealed, nipples pointing to the heavens. She laughs as she tugs the belt. That wide mouth of hers with smeared red lipstick and a perfect set of dentures, maybe. He becomes slightly annoyed and pulls away. But she pulls him closer. He looks that wide laughing mouth. He places his hand around her neck and begins to squeeze, softly at first. She laughs and sticks her tongue out mischievously. But he increases the pressure around neck, her eyes larger than usual. She shakes her head from side to side. He has reached a point where there can be no going back. She begins to splutter, gasping for air. He continues to squeeze. Harder. She kicks her legs, kicking the silver breakfast tray off the bed. An orange roll perfectly out the bedroom door and down a couple of steps on the stairs.
He squeezes. Harder. She kicks her legs fighting for her dear life. Foam at the corners of that mouth. Beads of sweat settled on forehead.
The smell of urine.
She kicks struggles, eyes bulging.
And he squeezes.
Squeezing the very life out of her. Until nothing. Stillness.
One lifeless hand hangs of the bed.
He sits on the floor head down between his thighs.
The sixth commandment.
‘I’ll have time to think about that one’ he thought.
Then that song.
‘tremble like a flower’