Keeping It Simple

time for a few short stories i've wrote over the past few weeks

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The outside gave little away. I knew what to expect.

Down six steps, into the basement building. Stale cigarette smoke, dead flowers, cheap perfume, the smell of pine.

How the smell of pine forests came to be associated with hygiene and cleanliness is beyond me.

The receptionist comes over, so bored she can hardly bring herself to commit to the next footstep. Looks like she chooses to offset the ageing process by using a trowel to fill the lines of her orange face with thick goopy make-up. Dead eyes embedded deep in sockets, resigned and distant.
"This your first time?" She hands me a towel.
I look up at her and squeeze the towel. "If I say yes, do I get preferential treatment?"

She looks at me like I just spewed up a turd, and sighs her millionth sigh.

The woman points to a paisley-patterned chair, a relic from some 1970's office, no doubt imbued with the dead farts of a thousand fat pen-pushers. With a motherly look on her face she says, "Someone will be with you shortly."
I guess this is her idea of good customer service. Waiting, moving my hands up and down my legs, wiping off sweat which immediately returns.
A girl appears from a door to my left. She too looks distant, although this time drugs likely feature in the picture. She comes over, catches me off-guard by flashing a genuine smile, a little lopsided but sweet and tragic. Standing half-turned away from me, I remember time is money here, and stand. Less nervous now, I follow her through another door. Then another. She adopts a more confident stance, the girlish innocence and naivete gone, assured in her domain. Her voice floats to me, hangs in the air with the smoke.
"Four hours I've been here today. And Tuesdays always seem worse than Mondays, don't you think?" She continues to talk, failing to follow one train of thought for very long. She performs little tasks during all of this: lighting small chubby candles and sandalwood incense, folding and unfolding starched towels, smoothing the bed sheets.
"My name is Anna. Try to relax- you look as stiff as a board. And not in a good way either."

I start to wonder if I always look this rigid and tense, and decide I probably do.

Do we, her pathetic clients, all look the same through her green eyes?

Anna walks over to the bed, sitting close to me. "You know about prices and stuff already, I'mwhere did that scar come from?" Her eyes flick up and look at my left eye.
"I had a cyst removed when I was young. The scar just never faded."
"Oh."
I blink 1,2,3 times in rapid succession, trying to prevent sweat running into my eyes.

I am aware of a lack of feeling from the neck down.

She continues to watch me, blinking sleepily due to frustration or boredom, I bet. Or maybe this is her idea of looking sexy.

It's hard to tell.

The sandalwood incense lets off careful wisps of smoke. I taste it in the back of my throat and swallow it down. Anna offers me a Marlboro Light, already lit. I take it and inhale. It's like smoking a straw.
"Thanks," I say, feeling nauseous. Exhale smoke. "I needed that."
She starts to slide my jacket off, easing it down until I shake my arms free. I struggle to think of some witty anecdote.

Nothing.

My imagination permits me to become the best sex she has ever had. I am the one who takes her away from all of this.

I allow myself these ruminations and diversions to escape the present moment. The heavy silence makes me panic, my breathing rapid and desperate.

Her voice brings me back to this depressing moment. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

I grab my jacket and leave without looking back, eyes fixed on the floor.

Back on the street again.

I walk towards the harbour, grateful for the light rain on my face. It falls, steady and calm.