by James Coates
She’s running late.
While I wait, I study the artwork on the bedroom wall. She always requests a tranquil canvas, or something fresh and inspirational for her private rooms. She said in an interview once, that they help calm her after the elation and stress of a performance.
I’m not keen.
I’ll tell her that none are as beautiful as her, she’ll smile, then...
From the window, the balcony blocks my view of the hotel foyer, but her arrival is announced by the excited murmur of waiting fans and the fluttering flash of photography. Still there are too many moments before I hear the drumming of footsteps along the corridor. Footsteps, finally bringing her closer to me.
The door swings inward. Every nerve in my body tingles in response. I reach out, yearning, ready. But, it’s not her at the door. It’s the huge bodyguard she’s employed.
“What the—.” His menacing drawl makes me cower. Hands grab roughly at my neck. “You little pervert!”
Dragged unceremoniously along the corridor, I see her amongst the leering crowd. For the briefest moment the entourage parts, and her eyes meet mine.
I stumble from the hotel, nursing my ribs, wiping blood from my nose. The angry split on my lip will soon heal, and then I’ll smile without pain at the memory of that beautiful, brief glance. More poignant than any painting.
She looked at me. I, exist.
Her next show is in Berlin, I booked my ticket months ago.
1 comment:
Nice stalker twist. Didn't expect it, which is the best sort of twist.
Post a Comment