‘Go away and have a think’ he’d said. I thought all afternoon, back in my room, standing in front of the easel in the heat, an angry brush in my fingers pressed against the nudity of my bosom. I thought about her and about my sister and about my choices. I thought about my paints and the oil smeared over my belly and the death inside me.
I showered and phoned the club and Shannon said I could work that night if I wanted. And then, with a frightened touch, I phoned her and asked her to come, my breath praying that she would say yes.
It was Wendesday when I saw her next. We met at Flo’s near Galleria and ordered hot chocolate and almond croissants. It wasn’t so easy to talk at first, after that Sunday night. I told her that I was so glad that she had come but I struggled to find the words to ask her the questions I wanted to ask. I wanted to hear how it had felt for her, seeing me there in that scarlet room, waiting for her. I wanted to hear how it felt as my wrists and ankles tied as she sat on the chaise-longue with her crystal glass of champagne. I wanted to hear how it felt to touch the crop and the black leather flogger and to turn them over, slowly, on the mahogany table where they had been placed. I wanted so much to tell her how I felt, how my mouth became dry with anticipation. I sipped silently from the foamy cup and wiped a buttery crumb from my lip.
