The Rooms (Unfinished)

The Rooms (Unfinished)

by

Varo Borja

Anna sipped her vermouth silently pretending all the while that it was the blood of the man who had left her in this dive holding the check and none of the cards. She wore a black dress, silky and soft and high, high stiletto heels that made her wince just a little when she stepped to the left and out of the narrow confines of the perspective into which she had been placed. Slow jazz reverberated in the smoke filled air as some half caste gypsy savant blew timorous notes from his tenor saxophone, serenading the last call lowlifes and fat businessmen in cheapish business casual attire slovenly slurping the mid grade whiskey that they couldn’t even taste anymore because they had drunk for abandon and the release that a night out of town and away from three kids and a sagging bottom wife could afford them. The signs were good that Anna would be able to scrape one of these fatted calves from his barstool, get him to pay the check, and sneak out of his hotel room while he was puking his guts out in the bidet or the sink or the bathtub. At one time Anna had been a looker. Hell, she still was but she was past the point of her ripest maturity and her 34 DD breasts had turned to 36 E’s over the last five years and her ankles were a bit larger than when she had won that swimsuit competition in Austin years ago. Her dark hair was still as lustrous as ever though, and her almond eyes still could be playful, or conciliatory, or knife like, depending on the situation and whatever was expedient. She’d had her tubes tied years ago after she’d had her third miscarriage and swore that she’d never get pregnant again, regardless of how much her biological clock demanded the retribution of her sex. Anna’s skin was still very good also, and she took care to keep out of the sun and always found time to cleanse, exfoliate, and moisturize her way into keeping the dogs of middle age at bay.

“Hey honey. Wanna buy me drink?” Anna said as she sauntered over to a 300 lb. man tanned hulk in a Brooks Brothers sport coat.

“Suuurrreee. Take’ll ya what? Vurmooth?”

“Sure, sweetie. You look right handsome tonight. You in the for the conference?” Anna could lay it on thick when the need arose, there was always a conference, and the bartender, Fat Mike was giving her the sign that it was now or never.

“Yayah. Its aw-full-ee hot in here, ain’t it?”

Anna noticed the absence of orangish goo around the barbarian’s left ring finger, indicating the fact that his man tan was recently acquired and hadn’t yet penetrated the bonds of matrimony.

“Why yes it is, darlin’. Don’t ya think that we should go somewhere cooler? Say, your room at the Clarion?” Anna prayed silently to the virgin that his room was at least at the Comfort. She threw in an extra Hail Mary for a suite at the Quality.

“Ummm. I’m stayin’ at the Sleep o-vur on Bristol. You wanna cum?”

Anna cringed. These days it was tough to find a man with taste, let alone decency, but she was in dire straits and in need of a lift to her apartment on Manchester. Bristol was a block away and if she took her stiletto’s off, she could easily sneak out with the buffoon’s wallet and make a B-line to her own bed where Max, her black manx patiently awaited her arrival.

“Honey, you’re sweet as apple pie. Anybody ever told you that your jawline resembles Matt Damon’s? You could pass for him any day under the sun.” Anna silently snickered to herself and ran her hand across the prodigious back of the lamb being led to the slaughter.

“Nah. You ain’t a hooowar are ya?” said Mr. Sleep.

“Honey, I’m anything you want me to be, and a hell of a lot that you can’t handle. We ready to blow this pop stand or not, sugarbritches?” Anna loathed being called a whore and her saccharine seduction was wearing thin at the seams, much like Mr. Sleep’s overstuffed, badly cut blazer.

“Okay. But you gotta drive. I’ve had too drink toooo much.” Mr. Sleep stood up slowly, bracing himself on Anna’s left breast and tottering ever so slightly, much like a weeble wobble that’s had a few too many Jim Beams.

Anna and Mr. Sleep (Anna never bothered with names. Her only concern was the size of a man’s wallet and the time it took him to pass out. She did have the last vestiges of a conscience, and the less she actually knew about her prey the better.) made their way to the door after Sleep fumbled about with the tab, spilling the contents of his overstuffed wallet out onto the bar and only being able to reconcile his debt with the help of Fat Mike and…