Went to the Gold Bar with the gringo but he wasn’t feeling it. No speeky spany. I spotted my little firework girl from Saturday night among the blinking Christmas lights and tacky plastic decorations. We were about to go upstairs for an hour of cheap fireworks in the saggy little bed, but the gringo needed a cab so I took him outside and when I got back she was gone with another guy. Didn’t take me long to find a replacement.
Her name was Brisa and her smile filled the room like the clean breeze sweeping the rainy streets outside. The fuck was fun and easy and she giggled like a tickled schoolgirl when I licked the side of her face and the sweat rolled off of me. Rain falling out the window by the bed and the time rolling by like forgotten ships, whispers of love in bunking whorehouse memories. Days and nights we’ve passed like this before in other lands, in service of hungry gods of passion. We finished fucking just as the bell rang and before I was done coming, panting on the sweaty sheet she was already on the horn the the bell-ringers downstairs. “Done. Coming down.”
I lit a couple of cigarettes for us and gave her a last warm kiss on that beautiful smile and we went downstairs together. Back in the bar I took my seat and she took hers across the room with the other girls. I started to write in my little book, the blinking lights shutting my thoughts off and on intermittently like an irritating hypnotist’s light switch, throwing playground winks from time to time to another playful whore across the room. A blond girl with intense eyes sat down right beside me and without any small talk or whorehouse hustle began to tell me of her mother’s death and how she had seen her mother get up and walk away right after telling her, “it’s not too late to believe.” I thanked her for telling me about her experiences and she excused herself to let me get back to my writing. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and told her I’d put her in my prayers and my poems, too.
Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2011.
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