The runaway sister
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The girl in the mirror showed the nervousness she felt inside. Her eyes shone dark from sockets that were deepened by the stark light from above. Her skin seemed moulded out of pale dough. She sucked the pulpous flesh of her lower lip in to bite it. The elevator hummed. It vibrated through the thin leather soles of her shoes Soft metallic music hung in the air. It seemed suspended by invisible spider webs.
Why was she here? What made her do this? Why hadn't she turned right at the exit of the restaurant where she worked to go home, as she always did? Home to feed the fat cat. To sit down and watch the end of a Cheers' rerun she had seen at least three times? Then take a lukewarm shower, run her hands over her lonely body. Find the damp dark bush on her mound, slip in a finger, two.
She had turned left. She had walked the three wet streets that separated the restaurant from the posh and very, very expensive hotel. She had never been inside it before, although this was her city where she had lived all her life.
After minutes of hesitation she had walked through the brass and glass revolving doors. She knew she must look shabby in her rain soaked coat and dripping hair. But she had decided not to follow the door full circle and back out again. She had decided to walk across the shining marble floor to the night reception. She had asked the pimple faced receptionist the suite number of miss Angelique Jonckers. And then she had walked over to the elevator.
The cotton candy muzak drifted on air-conditioned wings around her head. She shivered inside her wet coat. Then she watched as the metal doors sighed open. The dark hallway yawned in her face. Hundreds of feet of deep dark red rug stretched under rows of dimmed spotlights.
She stood and stared. Then her finger stabbed the zero floor button and the doors closed again. A metal, female voice sang "Going down" in two languages. The tiny tug at her calves told her the elevator started its return to earth — deep, wet indifferent earth. Lonely earth. She ran a pale hand over her face and whispered "Merde."
She knew it was plain cowardice. Fear it was. The same fear that had imprisoned her since she was a child, a teenager in cruel high school, a student in even colder college. They were the years she taught herself to be a nobody. Oh, there had been friends, even lovers. But hardly ever the ones she wanted. And hardly ever the emotions she craved.
What did I crave? Did I even dare to know? I knew what I abhorred, and who I hated. Oh, sure I did, as it was easy: they were the same ones I envied. They were the towering studs with their crude bodies, cruder minds. And their tall blonde girlfriends. They sneered at me, ignoring me. They not even took the trouble to make fun of me.
Were they right? Of course they were. And if they were not, I devoted my life to making them be right. I crawled and shied away. I polished my meekest smile into perfection. I brooded and envied. I cried, silently and in private.
There had been the scrawny, freckled girl when I was twelve. The girl who had taught me how to play my body. She had taught me the miracle of lovemaking. She gave me this shattering feeling that had enslaved me at once. But the girl had left soon and without a word. She left me behind with a craving I could not fulfil. No one cared to share it with me.
Oh, in some circles I was popular. But what's in a word? For the pimpled nerds I was popular. For the shy closet gays I solved a problem. I was the only girl they dared approach. I was the only girl they could muster enough courage for to ask out on a clumsy date.
And there were the overweight, sweaty girls, of course.
But now she was a woman. She was a woman who had taught herself she loved women. A woman who stood in the elevator of the poshest hotel of Quebec. Invited by the most breath-taking woman she had ever met.
How could she believe the woman had been sincere, back at the restaurant? How could she find the courage to meet her again? Why would she once more open herself up to be hurt, ridiculed, humiliated?
Why on earth had she done what the little, perfumed piece of paper told her to? The paper she'd found with her tip? Why had she walked three long streets wearing nothing but a raincoat? Why had she slipped into a toilet stall after work to get out of her uniform, her bra, her panties even? And the most astounding why: why did she feel tiny drops of her juices run down the inside of her thighs? Why did her extended nipples get so achingly hard as they chafed on the coarse lining of her coat, all the way to the hotel?
The elevator doors slid open once again as she reached the ground floor. She took a deep breath and stepped back into the reception area. The damn music made her want to scream, but of course she didn't. What she did was curse yet again under her breath. What she did was walk into the vast open space, ignoring the pimpled nerd at the reception desk. But what she also did, was stop right in front of the revolving doors that led to the street. Beyond the reflection of her body she saw the deep dark wetness of a Quebecois night. Streets gleamed with dripping lights. There was the heavy drone of traffic. She heard a far away police siren.
And she knew.
She knew that if she would step into the well of those revolving doors now and walk out into the rain, she would kill herself. Not in the spectacular sense of heroic suicide. Just in the smothering, anonymous sense of giving up the last remnants of a life that ought to be hers. She would kill herself in the cowardly sense of letting her life slide slowly and definitely out of her hands.
The pale woman waiting for her upstairs might ridicule her, even humiliate her. She and the perfect African model friends that were with her at the restaurant might point at her shabby appearance when she showed up. They might double up with laughter. But that would not be the real humiliation, would it? The real humiliation, the definite one, would be her leaving now, without even trying.
Leave now, she said to herself, and you'll never be able to look at yourself again.
A tear formed in the corner of an eye. Then it rolled down her cheek. Not able to move a muscle she stood there. She looked into the dark night beyond her reflection. Then, slowly, she turned on her heels. She walked back into the cool marble space. She felt her teeth grind under the pressure of hard jaw muscles. But she kept walking — watched curiously by the reception boy.
The elevator chimed its optimistic chime. The doors opened before her. She stepped in. She touched the top button yet again and pushed herself in a corner.
"Going up!" sang the sickening female robot's voice in both languages. She felt the slight pull at her calves.
She prayed. She murmured long forgotten little girl's words. "Avé Marie, plein de grace..." She prayed to hold on to her newfound courage. She prayed to ignore the screaming fear behind her eyes. Most of all she prayed to be wrong for once in her life.
The dark hallway stretched out before her. She had made it out of the elevator. Now she felt her feet sink into the rug. Suite 2301, she remembered. Penthouse, sans doute. Posh penthouse, sans doute. Intimidating penthouse, sans aucun doute. The sign was in brass, of course. There was no bell. Then again, the door was ajar. From within she heard music. It was jazzy, voluptuous music. A hoarse female voice was singing. She knocked.
No reaction, so she knocked again. The merest hint of relief washed over her. Maybe the woman wasn't in. Maybe she now had a good reason to leave? Was it a last legitimate opportunity to cop out? She closed her eyes. Then she pushed the door open and sneaked inside. The hall was big, with doors all around. There was a mirror. A huge bunch of roses stood in a vase on a slender table. The door in front of her was open too. Her heart throbbed against her ribs. She walked through it.
A huge television set flickered without sound. An empty champagne bottle and glasses lay in front of it. There were pieces of clothing. A green leather jacket. A blood red dress. Stockings. Heeled shoes with loose spaghetti straps. They formed a colourful trail leading to the right. Her eyes followed it. Then her head froze.
Stretched head down on the leather of a huge couch lay one of the African models that had been at the restaurant. Her right, endless leg was raised over the backside. The other dangled to the floor. Her perfect ass rose high up into the air. And right behind her was the woman who had invited her here. Angique she had called herself.
Alma
- 04.10.2020
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