the raphael

There were the violet stains of red wine on the white linen. I draped it over the curved rosewood arm of the coat rack. I took a look around me, closing the door behind. The room was small but comfortable, walls a decidedly unsubtle pale yellow hue. At one end was the closed door to the bathroom, where the shower ran with a dull roar, past a well-made mustard yellow bed, littered with Italian giallo magazines, facing a rosewood armoire. On the other was a white cornice window, of the Second Empire style; it was opened to the blue evening of the foggy gray city beyond.

The old television in the armoire was playing RKO matinees in start black and white. On the end table near the bedpost, a Chesterfield cigarette laid smoking next to its package in a sallow ivory ashtray. The lean cigarette holder was meershaum chipped and yellowed from use. On the windowsill was a black-and-white dress, patterned in a way that reminded me of Rorschach test inkblots. I smiled and stretched my arms, unbuttoning the linen vest, removing off-white shirt and pants, tossing them to the floor by the window. I put on a pair of brown houndstooth pajamas and searched the liquor cabinet. There was some gin in a tall bottle with a Spanish label. I poured it into old-fashioned glass from the armoire; silver droplets scattered across the table when my hand shook.

I sat down at the brocade chair near the window, smelled petroleum from the cars below, and read “Nostromo” by Joseph Conrad until the shower stopped, letting my mind wander. After a few alcohol-soaked moments passed in the soft amber lamplight. Looking to the side, I noticed the half-eaten remains of a grilled cheese sandwich on white, royal-blue striped china. The door swung open as I faced it, indirectly, one hand on the book in my lap and the other on the armrest of the chair.

When I looked up I saw her leaned up against the frame of the doorway, a lemon bathrobe hanging over her slim shoulders. She wore a black shirt the color of licorice. Her short-cropped auburn hair was still damp and lay in fringe across the shining irises of her eyes. Scarlet speckled her cheeks as she smirked at me. My eyes shifted downwards to the image of a garish yellow revolver embroidered on her black panties. It was aimed at me.

“You took long enough,” she said, as I took a look at her, one-eyed, through the kaleidoscope of the glass, examined the diamond pattern cut into its frosted surface, and shook my head. She was going to make a lecher out of me.

“I’ve been here twenty minutes,” I answered. She laughed, a short, incredulous laugh, and let her head roll across her shoulders as she smiled, brown hair swaying.

“And getting loaded already.”

I gave her a smile both guilty and proud.

“I only drink when I’m nervous.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” I continued, and gesturing towards the pleated gray heap under her dress at the window. “And that’s the most buttons I do believe I’ve ever seen on a pair of pants before.”

“Shut up,” she said, half-jokingly, and let the bathrobe fall from her shoulders before sitting Indian-style on the bed. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Sure,” I lied, and rose from my seat. I sat down on the oriflamme print of the yellow blanket, and admired the neatly folded linen underneath. I laid down next to her, my hands behind my head against the pillow, and kept my eyes on the television. Gradually they drifted to her, looking at me demurely.

“How was it,” she asked.

“I’m no good at snooker,” I replied. “I think maybe I ought to quit.”

“Well how do you like that.”

Silence. I thought about kissing her, biting her lips.

“Gee, I’m tired,” I finally gave, shakily.

“How long are you staying.” she asked.

“I leave tomorrow morning.”

There was another pause. She twisted over to face me more, putting a hand on the chest of my white shirt.

“If I kiss you I’m going to feel like hell in the morning.”

“That’s okay by me.”