I was sitting there wondering where it all fell apart. It was a lousy greasy spoon in a sea of ugly dead buildings. Two transvestites were at the counter, cackling, wearing huge colored wigs. A junky in a leather jacket and no shirt was nodding off after a day of horse riding, a cold cup of untouched coffee in front of him. I didn't need to drink coffee. I'd been up for days. I would be awake for a long time. I hear the bell above the door ring, and turn around. And in walked the woman who would end up making feel something I never thought I could feel: worse than I did now.
Her eye caught me looking at her, and she smiled. "Do you mind if I join you, darling?" Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect tits. How could I say no? We talked and laughed like kids. When I suggested we head for the nearest flea bag motel so we could get to know each other better, she grabbed my hand. Since I just met her, I thought it would be rude to take her back to my place. I was pretty sure someone was waiting there to kill me.
As I finished my coffee and called for the check, she pulled a paperback novel out of her purse. "What's that you're reading," I asked.
"It's a crime novel. From Hard Case Crime
. Hardboiled. It's pulp, like from the 50's. Bullets, blood, 'dames'..." she trailed off.
"Greasy spoons in bad parts of town at bad times of night?"
"Yeah, I guess so. I like them. They make me think dangerous thoughts."
"Does danger turn you on?" I asked.
"It sure does," she said, biting her lower lip.
"Then baby, we're gonna have a hot night."
As we left and walked out into the orange-black of the city night, my mind was far away from dimestore novels. But by the time the sun came up, I would have my own story of bullets, blood, and dames.
-Miguel Sanchez 12:00 EST |