The words over at Three Word Wednesday are frustrate, indecent and understand.
I take a job as a night watchman in a seedy hotel downtown.
All sorts of human detritus lives here.
Heroin addicts with the itch, dentured hookers who give $10 blowjobs ($20 sans teeth), the nearly homeless. It’s the last stop for many, a way station on the last train outta here.
I read a dog-eared paperback on a derelict barstool across from the check-in counter, the one fronted by scratched, greasy fingerprint-marred bullet-proof Plexiglas. And try not to let the place pull me into the funk that permeates this space, like the stench of fried fish, or stale cigar smoke.
It’s easy to feel the sinking hopelessness here.
Except for her.
A sparkling ray of beauty in an otherwise pile of human shit.
She’s dressed like always, leather bikers boots and a little black cocktail dress (tonight it’s short, tight in all the right places and strapless). Her red hair is down tonight, tight curls bound off her shoulders as she sways from the elevator toward the door. Crimson lipstick makes her flawless alabaster skin resonate. Her nails are painted the color of fresh blood as well.
“Officer,” she says as she passes, gives me a wink that borders on indecent. Her eyes are the most peculiar shade of gray, with purplish highlights.
The greeting frustrates me and she knows it. The same one-word salutation. Every evening, just past midnight, when she makes her grand exit.
I mutter under my breath and she stops short, both arms poised to swing the heavy doors onto the street.
Her eyes are storm clouds on a vast horizon. Swirling and angry.
She traces her steps, with purpose, until she’s standing in front of me, palms on those gloriously curved hips.
She flashes a toothy smile, two crowded, symmetrical rows of sharpened enamel like knife points.
“Your job is to watch over my prey, keep your mouth shut and you’ll continue to draw a breath,” she hisses. “Understand?”
And runs her serpent’s tongue across those pearly spikes.