Atypical London Night

It would have been nice to say the night was cold. But it wasn’t. It was sticky with humidity and the smell of stale sweat, heaving bodies, and two-day old love. I took the burning cigarette from my lips and exhaled blue smoke which curled lazily upward as it floated away into the hazy night.
         The alleyway was damp, and old newspapers on the cobblestones told disjointed stories of a world which I felt I didn’t even belong to anymore. A quick, heavy beat reverberated through the walls of the old club at my back; I pulled down my skimpy black patent leather skirt, and fingered my silver hoop earring absentmindedly as a silhouette of a man appeared at the head of the alley.
         “Oi!” He called, as if I might not be there. I dropped my cigarette and put it out with the end of my three inch gold, stiletto heel. I turned my head to look at him; the harsh backlighting accentuated the severe angles of his muscles against bone and the chiseled definition of his endless jawline.
         “We’re still on, are we?” I asked coyly. “You didn’t show for our last appointment. “ I slowly slinked toward him, my slight hips swinging seductively. He did not move, seemingly glued to the spot.
         “My wife was ill.” I rolled my eyes at the pathetic excuse, my heels clicking lazily on the newspaper covered cobbles. I stood in front of him finally, his face still blacked out.
         “She can’t give you what I can.” I said in a suggestive tone. He shook his head and small droplets of water fell from his shaggy, black hair.
         “Bloody hell, I’m sorry, but she’s my first priority.” I crossed my arms across my budding bosom, hidden badly underneath a neon pink tank top two sizes too small, my lips a steely line. “If it’s any consolation,” He began, and I looked away, examining a poster for some exotic dancer from Manchester who I knew was all lipo. “I missed seeing you.” He touched my cheek. His touch was sweet, innocent, and above all secure.
         I sighed, attempting to remain angry at him. Turning back to him I said, “Do you have the stuff?”
         He nodded. “Of course, I wouldn’t come without it.”
         I cut across him. “And 50 quid?”
         “50 quid?” He asked, shocked.
         “You kept me waiting last week.” I said haughtily. “There would be no fee if you had called to cancel.”
         He smiled a mite at my insistence and bullheadedness. “Yes, I have 50 quid on me.” He relented, his deep voice washed over me in a sweet bath of warmth and comfort.
“Well are we going to stand out in this dank alleyway all bleeding night?” I asked callously, hugging myself as if the night were a typical London night, which bites and sucks out just enough of the warmth out of your body to leave you feeling empty and alone.
As we began walking he put his arm around my shoulders. It rested awkwardly on the bones; I wanted to pull away, say something icily painful and cause him to break down and prove to me how important I truly was to him, to make him fall on his knees and beg for my forgiveness while showering me with sweet nothings which represented his unwavering affection for me. But I did not pull away. I stayed firmly glued into the crook of his arm which felt the perfect size, like God took, instead of my rib, my shoulder to fashion his entire mortal shell.
When we reached the rusted door to the club, the music now slower but the beat just as overpowering, I opened it slowly and peeked inside. The corridor was empty but sounds of insatiable passion came from behind every door. He entered slowly behind me, not warily, just slowly, he had become well accustomed to the plight of our circumstance. We walked methodically toward the third door on the right.
I removed a small, golden key from my bosom and unlocked it. My ‘guest’ closed it quietly with his back turned to me, though he could have slammed it and no one would have heard. My room was small and cramped but felt like a time space continuum, when we were together there, time seemed to stand still but at the same time slip too fleetingly through my fingers into the black hole of past.
I sat down on my bed and the springs creaked tiredly. He was standing, looking at my Chelsea Football club scarf pinned up on the wall next to a photo of me, smiling and carefree in front of the Grande Place of Bruxelles with Belgian flags hanging from every window and small strings of lights twinkling even in the picture.
“Shall we get to it?” I asked sensually, beckoning him to come and join me on the bed.
“How long ago was that taken?” He asked as he placed his satchel next to the bed and sat down.
I did not look at him. “Let’s not talk about it.” I saw he was staring at me analytically trying to understand why I did not want to discuss it. But he dropped it immediately.
I reclined on the bed and sighed as he reached over to retrieve the ‘stuff’ out of his satchel. He knew I would not start, or even move until I had seen it. He waved the bills first in front of my nose. they stank of sweat and metal. Grabbing them ferociously I asked, “So where were we last time?” Hoping he would remember.
He opened his book and examined his papers which he had spread out on my tattered comforter. “Direct object pronouns?”
You know, I wished the night cold, but maybe it was in its own way. Nothing is ever how it seems on the surface, so maybe my cold was hiding somewhere between reality and the unknown, somewhere between where I was and where I wished to be.