The man who opens the front door is naked except for the towel around his hips. Killer red, the package had promised, though she feels more raw than murderous. She recognises him immediately, despite the bulge on his waistline. A series of bare torso shots had shown off a body fit enough to chase any disease to the ends of molecular sabotage.
His accent is British, soft and precise. As he turns, one fat wet drop runs down his spine. These are the kind of thoughts that run through her head. Mental notes that could break your heart if you were made a certain way. She feels her way up the stairs, through a house plunged in semi darkness, sensing the outlines of tasteful furniture and a lot of beige and browns.
As she tosses her coat off, a wall of deep set windows flashes her reflection. Above, the ceiling disappears into the darkness of the third floor, swallowing light fixtures and exposed beams. Gothic proportions, this house has. A modern-day Vampire would be a fan. And with that thought, she crosses the word Vampire off her imaginary list. The one tacked to the bulletin board inside her head. Crossed off also: ghoul, creep, goon, and loon, because he is, in all likelihood, just a guy, a Tinder guy looking for love in all the online places.
Still a man is intimidating enough. His dining table looms before her, chic and serious, the size of a small swimming pool, with an orange-ish patina the colour of General Moa chicken. The chairs look fabulous. She sits down in one, shifting around in her seat, liking the feel of it. Chairs are her favourite piece of furniture, because she believes they are architecture for the body. She feels the same way about shoes.
Architecture for the feet. She stretches her legs out, kicks off her shoes, and flexes her toes. When she stares up at the ceiling she feels herself floating up towards the darkness. He emerges from nowhere, dressed in an obvious hurry.
