Cheating Life – 9.3

She finished her tea as I was done with my food. She munched distractedly on a petal she’d picked from the flower, which appeared little the worse for wear at the bottom of the cup. As she swallowed, she fished into her purse and withdrew a small copper plaque, which she set on the table in front of me. It was a smaller version of the plaque I’d thumbprinted the evening before. “By law,” she intoned, “I must ask you to renew the contract every day. I’m doing it this morning because if you decline to continue now, you’re liable only for one night’s stay. Just say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to the agreement printed there and press both thumbs into the appropriate circle.”

I quickly glanced over the agreement – there were no surprises – and affirmed the contract with a word, thumbprints, and DNA. “I’m very resolved on this, Jane.” I mustered all of my sincerity when I said so, mostly to remind myself.

“I know.” She returned the plaque to her purse and began fishing for something else. “I could see your determination as soon as I walked in your door. Here, give me your arm a moment. This will hurt a bit.” I complied, stretching my arm out as she opened a small, black leather box and withdrew what looked just like an old accounting stamp. When she held my wrist and pressed it down into the flesh of the underside of my arm, it did hurt, like a bite or a cut. She returned the stamp to her box, and I flipped my arm to see a high-res dot matrix tattoo inked into my flesh. There, now permanently in my arm, was a neat row of foreign symbols. The tattoo began to ooze blood, but she only took my wrist again and pressed a cloth napkin against it for a minute. “It identifies you as a suicide,” she explained. “My suicide, actually. You could say your body is now my property, at least as far as the rest of the girls are concerned. Of course, it won’t prevent you from declining the contract at any time if you change your mind, but then you’ll have a nice souvenir to take away with you.”

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The Corner of H & L (3)

She wasn’t the original plan, but what was I going to do? She was there, leaning into my window. More than leaning, she was spilling into the car, advertising her cleavage like melons on a grocer’s stand. Strangely, that was all the naked flesh she had on display – aside from her face, of course – the rest of her flirted beneath black lace, thigh-high leather boots, long gloves and a heavy leather jacket. It was winter, but it doesn’t get that cold here, and that getup would take awhile to unwrap. Maybe that was her game.

All of these thoughts were just murking around in my mind; I guess I was staring at that dark canyon where her breasts nuzzled up together. I was making a fool of myself, sure, but a man didn’t have to go spelunking to get lost in there.

“If you think window shopping’s fun, come into my store, baby.” She winked and wet her lips.

Fair enough.

I glanced up to her face. Her makeup was nearly a mask, but it was classy, seductive – full lips, red-brown like dried blood – bottomless black, ovally eyes obscured behind lids heavy with black liner and shadow that made the little corners of pink and white jump out at you. Thick brows arched over a strong, aquiline nose, not quite hooked. Straight black hair – glossy as a shampoo model’s – swung back into a knot behind her head, but straight-cut bangs and a lock over either cheek framed her round face. Her skin was smooth, the color of milky coffee. She carried herself like she owned the block – not stiff, exactly, but not slouching like the other girls on the street, even in spite of her height. Think Pretty Woman, if Julia Roberts had been a giant-sized man-eating Egyptian dominatrix instead of a blushing princess.

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