The two main doors slid open. One
strappy black heel clacked on the peach tile floor. The heels were carefully
strapped onto a pale, slender leg attached to a pale slender body. I can’t believe I am actually doing this,
she thought. She made her way over to
the front desk and asked the young gentleman where the restroom before heading
down the adjacent hallway. She escaped
into the tile-floored bathroom from the artistic abortion that was the hallway
carpet, a smattering of dark-hued flowers intertwined. Ashley looked under the
stall doors. She was alone, just what she needed. Ashley set her small, black,
clutch purse down on the sink counter and looked at herself in the mirror. Her
long, blonde hair had been curled and it hung down to her chest. My hair looks like shit. She moved the
golden mass behind her. Now it looks more
like shit. She moved her hair back in front of her. A pale arm raised in
the air. The mirror reflected the hem of her dress under her arm was lightly
adorned with white remnants of Lady Speedstick. Damn it! She grabbed a few paper towels, soaked one, and dabbed at
the stained area.
Ashley had been very specific on
asking Julio what being an escort entailed six months ago when he first
mentioned the job to her. He had assured her in his typically sassy voice that
it was only a dating service and that no one did anything they didn’t want to.
He never mentioned that women were given the option to do more. At least, he
didn’t mention it until he knew she needed money and money was in short supply
as of late. She tossed the paper towel into the trash and opened her small,
black, clutch purse and searched around. She pushed aside her driver’s license
and had to pull out a small tube of red lip stain, an eyeliner pencil, and her
cell phone to find a joint nestled between two condoms and a petite BIC
lighter.
I don’t have a problem. She honestly
didn’t have a problem with smoking pot; she had trouble affording it. The cost
of charcoal pencils and oil pants was ridiculous. In addition to her to her
rent and utility bills, she didn’t really have much money for much else. Her
friends used lend what ever bud they had in good spirit, but, in recent months,
had become less apropos about sharing even skunkweed. Sure, anything could be
art, but not everything was “good art.” Pot helped her regulate the difference
and alleviate her stress. I could either
smoke it now or smoke it later. If I
smoke it now I will be relaxed, but I will smell awful and be out until my next
paycheck. If I don’t smoke it now, I will have to save it. Damn it! She
begrudgingly stored her supplies back into her purse and looked at herself in
the mirror. She looked at her cute dress and how it showed off her milky
calves. The dress was the only piece of nice clothing she had that wasn’t
covered in paint. Her mom got it for her two years ago to wear under her
graduation gown. This is definitely not
what this dress meant for. It was
all too much to deal with. She clutched her purse under her left arm and walked
out of the bathroom back toward the main desk.
She pulled a small slip of paper
out of her bra. The slip read Room 333. Ashley
hooked a left along a row of black lamp poles set out along the front edge of
the bar. A sea of people seemed to be seemed to be flooding out from somewhere
behind the elevator toward her. Lost in
that cadre of wedding guests, her eyes moved from face to face. Tight.
Wrinkled. Porous. Babyish. Mustached. Shaven. Please let him be cute, please let him be cute, please let him be cute.
She passed through the group of guests and entered the elevator. Looking
through the glass back wall of the elevator, she looked down upon the atrium.
It was lovely, horrible for painting.
The elevator jerked to a halt and
the doors opened smoothly. She followed the door numbers down the hall. Three-forty-four. Three-forty-three.
Three-forty-two. They counted down to her starting to lose self-respect. She
rounded a corner into the poorly lit hall. In the darkness, the maroon plaque
read Room 333. The sight was horrible. Vomit
started to crawl up her throat. Her knees trembled. The scene was perfect for
painting, horrible for living. If she wanted to further her art career, she would have to suck it up and follow through. It’s just
for the money, just this one time.
Any names or likenesses in this story are completely coincidental.
