a morning in paris

Knowing what I know now, the woes and whys, the questions and answers, the way it all flows from the tip of my tounge. This is life, and all the many splendors contained within. Unblinking eyes from within a brilliant bloom, fragrance of probabilities of a million reaching vines trying for the suns light, explain away GOD, explain away love, explain away all the pain.

Have you ever heard a Mayan death whistle? An ornatley carved bone whistle no larger than your palm but the concordant chaos that it releases is enough to freeze the blood of a hearty warrior, chirping bells turn to a jaguars growl that increases in timbre until the whole green forest shakes with a screeching howl of anger and pain. Man and the devil within a breath.

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I awaken next to a w***e who's name I can't recall, her skin is soft and smells cleaner then it has any right to. The morning is turning to noon and I should kick her from my room with a thanks and a handful of twisted bills, but I have a few minutes and it has been awhile.

Her back moves up and down with her steady breathing, I trace the bumps of her spine with my thumb, she shifts and mumbles something incoherent in response. I settle into the dirty sheets and stare at the cracked ceiling, the sounds of morning Paris dance about my room, muffled by the heavy crimson curtains. I can smell pastries and coffee, my mouth waters and breakfast sounds more tempting than an hour of peaceful rest near a pretty young girl.

I sit up and run my hands through my hair, long and unkempt I look at my fingers at the loose hair that wraps about my fingers, brown and grey reminding me of my age, not a young man anymore, just an old drifter.

With deliberate care I pull the covers off and slip from the bed, the girl turns away from the light and her bottom catches my eye, round and perfect, I regret not knowing her name. A pile of bills on the night stand and I pull aside the curtains, white buildings and red roofs, Paris in the summer. people wander about on the cobbled streets below, if I close my eyes it's easy to imagine this place a hundred years before. The girl awakens and asks a question in her native tongue, I can't understand her and just shake my head.

She pouts her ruby lips and I smile at her exaggerations.

Stepping over discarded clothing and half empty champagne bottles I kiss her on the lips for an agonizing minute, when I part she can tell in my eyes that our time together is over, her beauty is covered by a stone strong hardness and she collects her things with a professionals instinct, pulling her panties on with one hand while shaking out her blue sundress, I watch her clothe herself.

Something about a woman dressing has always sparked my arousal, I consider paying for another afternoon of sweaty screaming fun but I have to move on, the sun is high in the blue sky and my client is waiting at a popular bristo off the main courtyard.

I smile and say good-bye, she slams the tall door in my face and all I can do is scratch my stomach and wonder why all my relationships end the same way.