Pillow Memo

He was a laconic man. Said little (ate much, drank too-too copiously, smoked like there was no tomorrow). Was a simple man too, who just happened to appreciate the finer things in life.

Touring the gaudy streets of Paris, he met the most beautiful woman on earth. She had a bad leg (old ballet injury, explained quickly) and a razor-sharp tongue, and hooked his attention instantaneously.

She called herself Maria (no surname) and was a première sujet of some troupe he can't pronounce—could've made it "real big" if it weren't for the stupid leg (ankle, to be honest, she added).

"Care for a drink?"

"Where"?

"Any hotel nearby?"

Maria smiled. "I know just the place."

Cross shrugged (suited him just fine, whatever, really).

And up three flights of stairs they climbed until they reached a dingy, cramped dollhouse compartment.

"It's not much, but it's cheap."

– she poured the drinks –

"It's fine. Where's the sink?"

– pointed to the adjacent closet-room –

"That's the kitchen. Red wine all right?"

"Whiskey if you have it."

Whiskey it was for him, sweet wine for her. Side-by-side, they sat against the window, backs facing the Parisian sunken-rain of cheap blood cleansing and stained alcoholic slops. She glanced his way occasionally, thinking he didn't notice (he did). Cross laughed, thought it was so cute how she seemed to shy away (she didn't).

And somehow, they found themselves entwined together; skin sliding against skin (the wet beats of rain humming rapidly in the background). The night lingered half-closed and dazed, languid—almost painfully poignant. Soon, she picked up the scent of his cologne and cigarettes, and he inhaled her flowery talc powder.

In the morning, she was gone: note on his bed (sealed with a kiss).

But he had picked up the habit of one glass of wine before a bucket of brandy.