While Suzy Sleeps
by
Aahlu
by
Aahlu
Breakfast between seven and ten, or as I remember it, get down there as early as you can before the kippers have all gone. It was that sort of hotel.
But Suzy sleeps regardless, while hunger growls around the room, like a lion prowling discontentedly.
Hell the rooms a mess, we broke some things, spilled wine on others, the carpet, oh the carpet squelches and the bathroom stinks. Like I said, it was that sort of hotel. Rough and ready. Convenient.
Still Suzy sleeps while I wrestle with the remote, jammed on ITV with a muted volume. Someone stamped on it, I think. Eight thirty comes, waves, passes. Say hello nine, where have you been. I pull back the tangled bedclothes just to look at her, hungry enough to eat her, to bite off one of her legs. But she sleeps, lips parted enough to be sexy, halfway between a pout and a leer.
She stinks and the bed stinks. In fact the whole room stinks come to think of it. Its that sort of hotel, as I’ve said. She stinks and has teethmarks all around her nipples, by her belly button, and bruises all over her legs.
Maybe they will wash off but I think it unlikely. I clatter and crash and flush the loo, wondering if she’ll ever wake, but no noise I made even caused her to stir. Even the T.V, loud as it is with motor racing doesn’t faze her, doesn’t raise her, from the seemingly dead.
I have a shower, wincing when I rediscover the places she’s made. Its that sort of hotel. Not all one way. The towels are sodden, all save the smallest, the little mat thing you are supposed to put on the floor.
The room rumbles, traffic on the motorway, aircraft landing, taking off, but Suzy sleeps on in innocence.
I dry myself if you can call it that, dabbing and patting with the gritty bit of mat, dirtier now than before I started, grumble tummed from the bacon I need.
Suzy sleeps, uncovered, naked, oblivious.
Fetchingly arrayed, if you like that sort of thing.
Something crunches on the floor, a biscuit, still wrapped, fallen in terror from last nights debauched plate. That must be an earring next to it I think.
I phone home, get the ansaphone, leave a message. I wasn’t rude, I was disappointed. No, was it even that? It was expected. I’m here but she’s not there, so where might she be instead?
She wrote a song for me, recorded it, badly, posted it on YouTube, for everyone to see. Video clips of me in the garden, in my car, having a bath. How does it go? I can hardly remember, except that I threw a lot of things at the time. Insults mostly though some toast once or twice, when I first saw it. When she got to me.
No, don’t tell me
My beds one part
And the starfish
Turning within
The wheel
Is another.
It turns faster
Takes me further
This time. So,
Don’t tell me now
Call me later
When I’m not home.
Suzy sleeps and I still have no idea what those damned words meant, but I did call her when she wasn’t at home. Just like she suggested in her song to me.
Nine thirty passes and I find my trousers. Shame they’re torn and the zip is bust. Strange though, I can’t recall it happening but it is that sort of hotel after all. Rough and ready and as convenient as they come.
Somewhere theres a suitcase, ah! There! Clean shirt and trousers, even a tie.
I forgo the tie, retrieve both socks and find one shoe on her side of the bed.
The other under it.
Suzy sleeps, lewdly agape, leaking something, her or me.
I write a note on the hotel paper, with the hotel pencil on the little table by the phone, by the remote which doesn’t work, next to the wineglass with lipstick on it.
“Gone down to breakfast” I write, wanting to touch her, wanting to screw her again, so suddenly, so suddenly, but I slip on my shoes instead, leave the room quietly, go down to breakfast, appeasing a different hunger, while Suzy sleeps.
© Aahlu 25.03.2010.
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Thu, 15th April, 2010
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