People say my cigarettes stink. But to me, they're positively perfume to the twinned stench of sweat and physical union that seeps under the doorways of the establishment I and my friend are currently patronizing.
I did not intend to come here ever. But my friend insisted, "Come to ________ (he named a country known for its inexpensive intimate interludes)! It will change your life!" Like the protagonist of a hero's journey, I refused him. Twice. But when I found myself unemployed, heartbroken, and with a modest but not minimal inheritance from my last living parent's passing, I said to hell with it. And so, passport dug out of a moving box I never got around to unpacking later, I found myself in an urban riot of people, noise, and smog - then to a small room with a likewise small lady whose services my friend had procured for me.
Linger over the details I will not - save that I insisted that she turn all the lights on, rather than the dim, romantic mood lighting she opted for. She asked me why. I told her, "Because if I don't see you in full light, you cease to exist." No doubt she found it odd, but she was not paid to question it. Instead, she gave me an overly bright, clearly fabricated smile and her assent.
How I felt after? Well, nothing overly emotional. Calm, I suppose. Relaxed enough that I was able to excuse myself to go outside and smoke. She was pretty, of course. My friend made sure of that: "In honor of busting your 25 year slump!" For that, I was thankful, but her beauty, like her smile, was rendered inauthentic, a window display of skin that I felt no attachment to. Not unlike the one I think of now as I watch the grey smoke float out into the lightly drizzling grey sky, barely visible against the raindrops and the grey skyscrapers I see periodically dotting the cityscape.
When it rains like this - the soft, warm, early summer rain - I'm put in mind of The Garden of Words (the novelization, not the film), and various compositions of City Girl play in my ears. Which in turn leads me to remembering her - that winsome smile, that mocha skin, the hair a... not brunette, not so common as brown, but in that spectrum, lit underneath with a blonde light that isn't visible, but I perceive anyway. The one who introduced me to that artist and whose music always puts me in a relaxed mood, even as my heart aches with her absence several thousand miles away, whether I'm in my home or in this country.
My friend is enthusiastically engaged still with his choice. He has one of those booming voices that can be heard from half a mile away, even through the thin walls of this place, though the sounds he makes now are no discernable words. I find myself chuckling and shaking my head, making note to tease him for his volume when we go drinking later (he beer, me wine no doubt).
"Excuse me. May I please borrow one?"
A female voice. I turn, but see only a preposterously large, bright yellow raincoat that conceals everything about her.
"Sure."
I see the orange end of her borrowed, yet not to be returned cigarette as I offer her a light, but can not penetrate beyond that. Not that I'm especially interested, of course. Only the sort of idle, commonplace curiosity that such a situation engenders.
"Thanks," she murmurs, prior to a stream of smoke.
Our streams cross, contrary to proper male lavatory etiquette, but this is a rain-sotted rooftop and she is a woman. I watch the co-mingling of our exhalations in silence. She, too, is quiet for a time.
"I'm _____" The name is no doubt professional, as illusory as everything else in this building.
"Winchester." My last name, not my first. First names are too personal for commercial transactions.
"Like the gun company?"
"No relation."
"Oh." The vinyl yellow mound shakes with laughter. "A pity, but at least your ancestors won't be ashamed of you like mine are."
"Why would your ancestors be ashamed?"
Her head lifts as she appears to gaze out at the city as I did earlier.
"My father was descended from a line of nobility - sometime back in the 700s, I think it was. He never made me legal, wouldn't recognize me. I understood, of course. My mother worked here, too, until she couldn't. But it meant I had to work here too, when the time came."
A tall tale or the truth? I suspect the former, this business being what it is, but I can't help but be intrigued by the latter. Still, I don't give her the satisfaction of a response - not even so much as a hmph.
"If you want to hear more, come see me some time."
Now I hmph. She thanks me for the cigarette and walks back into the building, the closing door behind her muffling some of my friend's enthusiasm.
Maybe I'll see her. Maybe I won't.
I did not intend to come here ever. But my friend insisted, "Come to ________ (he named a country known for its inexpensive intimate interludes)! It will change your life!" Like the protagonist of a hero's journey, I refused him. Twice. But when I found myself unemployed, heartbroken, and with a modest but not minimal inheritance from my last living parent's passing, I said to hell with it. And so, passport dug out of a moving box I never got around to unpacking later, I found myself in an urban riot of people, noise, and smog - then to a small room with a likewise small lady whose services my friend had procured for me.
Linger over the details I will not - save that I insisted that she turn all the lights on, rather than the dim, romantic mood lighting she opted for. She asked me why. I told her, "Because if I don't see you in full light, you cease to exist." No doubt she found it odd, but she was not paid to question it. Instead, she gave me an overly bright, clearly fabricated smile and her assent.
How I felt after? Well, nothing overly emotional. Calm, I suppose. Relaxed enough that I was able to excuse myself to go outside and smoke. She was pretty, of course. My friend made sure of that: "In honor of busting your 25 year slump!" For that, I was thankful, but her beauty, like her smile, was rendered inauthentic, a window display of skin that I felt no attachment to. Not unlike the one I think of now as I watch the grey smoke float out into the lightly drizzling grey sky, barely visible against the raindrops and the grey skyscrapers I see periodically dotting the cityscape.
When it rains like this - the soft, warm, early summer rain - I'm put in mind of The Garden of Words (the novelization, not the film), and various compositions of City Girl play in my ears. Which in turn leads me to remembering her - that winsome smile, that mocha skin, the hair a... not brunette, not so common as brown, but in that spectrum, lit underneath with a blonde light that isn't visible, but I perceive anyway. The one who introduced me to that artist and whose music always puts me in a relaxed mood, even as my heart aches with her absence several thousand miles away, whether I'm in my home or in this country.
My friend is enthusiastically engaged still with his choice. He has one of those booming voices that can be heard from half a mile away, even through the thin walls of this place, though the sounds he makes now are no discernable words. I find myself chuckling and shaking my head, making note to tease him for his volume when we go drinking later (he beer, me wine no doubt).
"Excuse me. May I please borrow one?"
A female voice. I turn, but see only a preposterously large, bright yellow raincoat that conceals everything about her.
"Sure."
I see the orange end of her borrowed, yet not to be returned cigarette as I offer her a light, but can not penetrate beyond that. Not that I'm especially interested, of course. Only the sort of idle, commonplace curiosity that such a situation engenders.
"Thanks," she murmurs, prior to a stream of smoke.
Our streams cross, contrary to proper male lavatory etiquette, but this is a rain-sotted rooftop and she is a woman. I watch the co-mingling of our exhalations in silence. She, too, is quiet for a time.
"I'm _____" The name is no doubt professional, as illusory as everything else in this building.
"Winchester." My last name, not my first. First names are too personal for commercial transactions.
"Like the gun company?"
"No relation."
"Oh." The vinyl yellow mound shakes with laughter. "A pity, but at least your ancestors won't be ashamed of you like mine are."
"Why would your ancestors be ashamed?"
Her head lifts as she appears to gaze out at the city as I did earlier.
"My father was descended from a line of nobility - sometime back in the 700s, I think it was. He never made me legal, wouldn't recognize me. I understood, of course. My mother worked here, too, until she couldn't. But it meant I had to work here too, when the time came."
A tall tale or the truth? I suspect the former, this business being what it is, but I can't help but be intrigued by the latter. Still, I don't give her the satisfaction of a response - not even so much as a hmph.
"If you want to hear more, come see me some time."
Now I hmph. She thanks me for the cigarette and walks back into the building, the closing door behind her muffling some of my friend's enthusiasm.
Maybe I'll see her. Maybe I won't.
- 2