She stretches her leg and pulls the black stockings up to her thigh, both of them. She stands up and fastens the stockings in a garter belt of the same color. She admires herself, looking into a weathered mirror with a laboriously carved silver frame, set against the dusty wooden floor.
Her breasts are exposed and her nipples are pink, the beautiful tits of a mature woman. She sits on a bed of crumpled sheets, elegant she crosses her shapely legs.
The flame of a lighter ignites the thin cigarette, the tip glows and she exhales a long, sinuous blue smoke. Her thoughts float along with the smoky draw.
The client snores like a pig, fat and sweaty, stretched out on the bed like a boxer who has just been knocked out. The owner of a cock so small that she could barely hold it with her fingertips to masturbate. One more she thinks, laughing, wiping the nicotine from the tip of her tongue.
She takes a deep breath and puts on her stilettos, stands up and slips into her tight black silk dress. She pulls down the zipper in an acrobatic fashion. She tilts her neck from side to side, hooking her mother-of-pearl earrings. She finishes with the diamond necklace.
She goes to the mirror, squats down, draws a red mouth with lipstick, wipes the dried cum marks on her chin and forehead. The image of her children appears reflected in the old mirror.
If only they knew what their crazy mother does on hot July afternoons. She laughs at herself. The door creaks when she opens, the customer chokes on his own saliva.
She walks down the stairs of the cheap little hotel. The steps groan with her footsteps. She hands the black doorman, her old acquaintance, a twenty-dollar bill. From the radio, she hears the President's nasal voice announcing a bomb explosion in the middle of the desert in the Midwest.
"Do you need a cab, ma'am?"
"Not this time, Tom, I came in my car. It was an unforeseen."
She opens the door. The bell rings.
"See you, Tom, see you next time."
The black man flashes a smile wiping the sweat from his forehead with a striped handkerchief. The slender form parades by, tapping his shoes on the floor until she disappears from sight.
The man walks to the windows. He waits. A Bugatti snores loudly. A green patch glistens past in the sun, darts down a dusty road.
Weeks Later...
She sat in a wicker chair with a wide, rounded, richly crafted backrest and a cream leather seat. She dress in a silver silk robe, her loose breasts marking the fabric, her straight hair tied on top of her head. Her legs were elegantly crossed, and tanned, her feet dangling inside white leather sandals.
The newspaper lying on her thighs shows a headline: 'Berlin Surrounded! The Reds stop American convoys. The Cold War begins.'
She turns the page looking for other subjects. She bends down and without taking her eyes off the headlines in the paper takes a sip of a steaming cup of coffee in a delicately made Chinese porcelain cup.
"Madame. Mr. Patrick wishes to see you. May I send him in?"
She runs her finger over her forehead as if organizing her thoughts. She takes a deep breath and faces the butler standing in front of her.
"Good morning Albert! My husband has traveled, I don't know what Patrick could want with me?"
"Neither do I madam, but he seems agitated. If you don't mind my saying so."
She takes a deep breath, leans back in her chair, closes the newspaper, and drops it on the floor.
"Yes, send him in. And Albert, leave us alone, you may retire. Thank you."
Before long, a young man in a well-cut suit, with shiny hair, approaches with, an expression of concern. He holds a brown envelope in his hand.
"Monique."
"Patrick. Please, sit down."
The boy who could be your son is her husband's nephew.
"Trouble? Your uncle went to Dallas, the firm's business."
"I know. But it's not him I want to talk to. It's you."
"Me? What did I do this time?"
She says, lighting a cigarette, and crossing her legs in a way that shows her brunette thighs. The young man smiles and hands over the envelope.
"Yes, I think you will recognize the people in the pictures."
Monique tries to control the urge to scratch the face of the cheeky boy sitting on the other side of the table. Like an angry cat. She opens the envelope and examines the photos of poorly dressed men, her old acquaintances. She has a surprise with the last photo, her laughing with her friend, Tom, the hotel owner, where she has her 'dates' with such clients.
She bites her upper lip, and the cigarette ash breaks and splatters on the glass table. She itches her thumb with her finger.
