It wasn't about sex. If it was, he would have fucked her a long time ago, and called it a day. If he was planning on just fucking her, he'd ask her out for coffee, something real casual and talk about the latest art exhibit at the MoMA, what she thought of Baldwin's Another Country, if she read the newspapers anymore, that Salvador Dali's mustache had to be fake. Maybe even the latest scandal on the news, if he was that bored. She'd end up settling, too, thinking that it wasn't so bad. She was sure he was meeting another girl later that week, on a date somewhere similar; another brunette, since he isn't the blonde type. She could handle it.
Water was running from the faucet in the bathroom. It was a tiny, cramped space with floor tiles from the '20s and ugly floral wallpaper. He was uncertain whether the flowers were roses, or something else; he didn't know flowers. He wasn't that kind of man. She was in there. God only knows what she was doing for so long. He liked to imagine it was something dirty, maybe, since she wore the kind of glasses that librarians used to when he was a kid. It didn't even have to be that dirty; in fact, he preferred it wasn't, that she was just bending over to pick up a lipstick that fell from her purse. He could hear sighing.
She was sitting on the counter. Her back reflected in the mirror, the lace of her dress stretched tight over her shoulders. What are you doing in here? he asks, thinking about her face. It resembled all the women in the paintings he's ever seen, all of his ex-girlfriends. He remembered her hands when she talked about how all art is rebellious, like grown-up children, only hours before. She was sipping wine and said she was thinking. Talk to me, she said, and close the door. If he just wanted to fuck her, he would have a long time ago.
words: Joanna Valente, New York (blog + Yes, Poetry)
image: 'meta cosmos' - Daniela Elza, Canada (Strange Places)
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