stand in front of the fogged mirror, close my eyes, and inhale steam. As I’m combing my hair, my cell phone rings.
I answer it and hear this: “No update.”
“Die! Die, you frigging no-good scumbag porcaccione. Non me ne importa un cavolo!” I slap the phone shut, rub my eyes for a second, then slip my cell in my pocket.
I walk out of the bathroom and get dressed, listen one more time for Melody—still with the clinking—then quickly make my way to the front desk.
I walk up to the only person there, an older guy dressed well enough to indicate he’s management. “Nearest pharmacy?”
“Yes, sir. Twenty-four-hour CVS up the block.” He points as though I can see through the mahogany-paneled walls.
I run across the empty lanes of the street, become the only patron of the dormant store, buy every box of 4 mg Nicorette they have left in stock (smoking might be cheaper), and pop a few in my mouth as I walk to the counter to pay. It doesn’t take long before the comfort of the drug is back in my veins—a partial defeat; were I a smack addict, this would be my methadone—but I still run back to the hotel. The last time I turned my back on Melody, I spent the day sniffing around Baltimore like a dog who couldn’t find his way home.
I hurry back to my room, lose my breath on the way. Friggin’ cigarettes.
It’s nearly seven o’clock, and this time when I put my ear to Melody’s door, I faintly hear the turning of pages. I sit on the edge of my bed, collect my thoughts along with my breath, then call down to the front desk and ask to be transferred to the spa. The guy I spoke with regarding the pharmacy tells me the spa does not open for a few more minutes—at seven—but that I can hold.
When I get the lady on the phone, our conversation goes like this:
“I’d like to make an appointment for my… friend,” I say. “Female.”
“Of course. What day and time?”
“Today, an hour from now.”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry, sir. We’re booked for the next eleven days, the next opening I have is on the—”
I hang up. What’s the point, really? Obviously, this transaction needs to occur in person. Name and money, my friend. Name and money.
Fifteen minutes and a few hundred later Melody has appointments scheduled that run from eight-thirty all the way to four in the afternoon, so she’ll be finished around five. I don’t even understand what they are, was told women love them, even got the pleasure-indicating eye roll as punctuation.
I stall in my room until eight—banging on Melody’s door before that seems too rude, after that seems too lackadaisical—upon which I exit into the hall and knock on her hallway door.
Melody opens it and laughs at me, props herself in the doorway. She looks fresh and clean and caffeinated, is wearing the robe from the bathroom. “You could’ve come through the adjoining door, you know.” Then she readjusts her robe—an attempt at tightening it—but when she pulls the left side out to stretch it over, I can’t help but notice a margin of her breast that suggests she’s wearing only the robe.
“It seemed a little… inappropriate,” I say. “Like I had some right to be in your room anytime I wanted.” She slumps down a little and crosses her calves as she stands in the doorway, and as she does her left leg is exposed all the way to her upper thigh and the V opens up in her robe again, and now I’m certain she has nothing else on. I keep eye contact but my peripheral vision takes her all in, the shape of her body, the smooth curve of her chest, the overcast valley between. I could provide a sketch artist with enough details to keep him busy for a week. The shape of her jawline and the way it casts a shadow on her neck, the delicate question-mark shape of her ears, how her eyelashes gently sway like wisps of wheat whenever she blinks. People often suggest God has a sense of humor; there is no disputing He has a sense of artistry.
I bite my lip, glance down the hall as though something legitimate took my attention away. She slides to the side and waves me in.
“Sorry to disturb you so early, but I got you in the spa at eight-thirty.” Her room smells like the kitchen at Sylvia.