She knocked at my door. It was a quarter to nine O’clock Thursday evening.

I spoke to her earlier in the day, in the late afternoon. She came just on time.

I opened the door, after bolt and bolt. There she was, standing perfectly still.

Dressed in black and pink. Soft pink. Just as requested. She smoked a long cigarette.

Quite ill. I asked her to come on in and she did, with a wag and a tight stroll.

I asked her what kind of music she wanted to listen too. She said she didn’t mind.

I suggested some jazz. Not the contemporary kind, but the older kind.

Her golden hair waved as she tossed it back to the other shoulder in a graceful movement.

She picked up today’s Times from my bare floor and asked for a glass of water,

before I could even offer. I told her to feel at home and have a seat.

I went to the kitchen, scratching, and poured her a glass of water in one of my finest clear glasses.

Came back out, still scratching, and found her on my used couch in a gaze, still.

I reached out and gave her the water and told her how much I appreciated her business.

She thanked me back, and took a sip of her cold water.

© 2004 David Greg Harth

04.05.14.02:14:52@296NYC