INT - The Blue Movie Motel
the painter sat
on the bed
and watched sadie undress.
usually he liked to help:
he would stand behind and
unfasten buttons,
pull sweaters over heads,
gently pull down skirts and blue jeans
all the while
kissing and biting necks
wrapping his arms around waists and shoulders.
all this in front of the motel mirror,
so they could watch.
but this afternoon,
with sadie,
whom he had yet to see naked,
the painter felt like watching.
and as she slowly undressed,
he sipped his bourbon,
took a few pulls from his cigar,
and said:
"leave the pearls on, please."
fprm
8-26-09
Motel Mirror
Across the motel room, you stand naked in front of the mirror, wine glass in one hand and my cigar in the other. You wear nothing but the pearls I gave you just a few hours before. And you smile as you catch me noticing you from the bed.
It is a typical motel, with the standard double bed, a full-length mirror, an old TV without cable, and a heavy orange curtain across the large window shielding us from the outside world. We’ve been coming here for years though, and we are treated like regulars. The towels are warm and soft, and there is also a small fridge full of my second-favorite beer. Across the road in the middle of the desert is a diner which will deliver breakfast, if we desire.
Across the motel room, you stand naked in front of the mirror and before me. You take a sip of the pinot noir and a light puff from the Hemingway and then exhale. As a painter, I admire your body, your smile and your eyes and wonder why I’ve never painted you before. But then again, why would I need to paint you. I am happy with you here. Alone. With me. This is our world and our universe. Outside of it, we are prisoners, but within these walls, we are free.
fprm
8-21-09
At the Corner Café
As I wait for you at the corner café, I nurse my whiskey and examine my cigar. A similar one had been consumed by you the night before. Most of it anyway, because before it was done you put it into the ashtray, turned your back to the motel mirror and gracefully approached the bed, your smile more mischievous than serene, your eyes focused on your prize, your other hand cradling the glass of pinot noir.
And I looked up at you, glasses resting on my mussed up hair, cigar clenched in between my teeth, notebooks and sketchbooks surrounding me. You walked slowly along my side of the bed and handed me the wine glass, from which I took a long sip and then placed on the night stand. And you crawled on top of the bed, and pulled the sheet away from me and straddled me just above the waist. You laughed a bit as the hair on my stomach tickled the inside of your legs, and then you leaned forward, put your hands on either side of my face and kissed me on the forehead, just below my glasses.
Outside, the thunder began, first with a few sporadic claps and then more consistently, and soon the rain began. It was odd for the desert but appreciated by both of us. Sheets of rain pounded the large window hidden by the heavy orange curtain, and the concert of thunder, rain, an old creaky mattress, and our coordinated breathing began.
Earlier this day, I took a drive into town, knowing that you enjoyed sleeping in, waited for the one used-book store to open and did a bit of browsing, and then around 11 a.m. made my way to the café and ordered a whiskey. I lit the cigar and sipped the bourbon and waited for you, thinking of our symphony.
Then the barkeep comes out and hands me a message on a matchbook he hurriedly used to transcribe and convey it. A note from you: “come home, come play, it looks like more rain today.”
I look up at the sky, which was a light cloudless blue as far as the eye could see. And I enjoy the contrast with the earthy, sun-beaten hues of the American desert. There is no chance of rain, I think to myself. But what do I know? You are the magician. With you, anything can happen.
fprm 8-21-09
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