She had all the troubles of a drunk and with not a drop in her. But you should have seen her when she found a bottle. She was a classy girl, but at the age where she didn’t like to show it. She seemed eager to show off her vocabulary tossing out words like clay pigeons. With a touch of wine, she cursed blue. But always blushing red and looking around to see if anyone had taken notice. Desperate to prove her unrestricted, uninhibited, attitude she often would act out, it could be most unbecoming.
“Wine always makes me shit.” She hiked up her night gown and sat down next to me. Her slender legs bent and touching at the knee with ankles cocked at strange angles. Her back curved forward as she hunched atop the porcelain toilet. She rested her chin in her hands and blew a strand of hair out of her face, rolling her eyes trying to see if I had noticed.
Normally I would have pretended not to care but I gazed on, even turning around to look at her as I shaved. It was like a painting.
A truly beautiful Madonna on the john. It was horrible to encourage her like this, to let her think she was surprising me, had shocked me. That’s how I keep these young girls. They try so hard to prove themselves, to convince themselves they’re different from what’s expected of them. And I’m just that one more experience they need before they’ve got enough of them to return. Back to the trends, and the norms and the men. The men with careers and dignity. The men with light heads and heavy stomachs. The men with lawn mowers and golf clubs. Men who were not like me.
She even had a cute name little name. Annabel. My little bell, and oh how sweet she rang. I could hear only the slightest of bodily noises as she shifted and held her breath. I couldn’t remember what she was studying down at the college. She was quiet, probably not psychology. But with those tiny beautiful hands, my god.
I bet she was an artist barely touched her brushes as they danced across her canvas the hairs thick black and wet. She could be a violinist who played soft and slow, making that little box weep across the room, resting her soft cheek against the wood, curling her lips just so as she drew the bow across her.
She stood up without flushing and wiped the sweat from above her eyebrows. Her nightgown clung still above her hips exposing her pink flesh. She pulled it up over her head and stood completely nude. Comfortably waiting for the water to build up and come shooting out of the shower. She stepped in singing now. Not looking back to see if I was paying attention. She knew I was. I dropped the razor in the sink felt drunk as I crossed the bathroom. Careless and light like in a dream I reached for my artist, my Madonna, for the young girl who had just sat drunk and shitting audibly.