Fifty-Minute Hour
“It’s difficult to breathe. Someone’s slapped gouache right across my face, dammed up my nose and mouth. There’s no air in the room. The pictures need it all. I can hear them panting in and out, breathing far too fast. They’re all squashed and jammed together – some not even hung, but stacked around the skirting, balanced across chairs. ‘I’m sorry,’ I keep telling them. ‘I need a bigger place, but …’ I didn’t buy the sculptures. There wasn’t room – or cash. I can’t take any more clients, not wit...h pictures on the bed. I’m too tired, in any case, too raw and sore and smarting, all my different orifices screaming out in pain. I can’t really blame the blokes. They paid for what they got, didn’t overstay their time; were mostly lonely misfits, not sadistic dangerous maniacs. One even said he loved me, bought me twelve red roses. The thorns were bigger than the blooms, which died within the day.
I weave around the room, avoiding pictures, furniture.MoreLess
I weave around the room, avoiding pictures, furniture.MoreLess
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