Big round curlers in her dark hair bob as she straddles my bed; this flat bellied, long legged, pert breasted woman who fills my days and nights with a magnetism I cannot define.
Marissa moved into my apartment, thrust upwards on banks of The Seine, just three days after Elise jetted off on a grand tour of Italy-leaving Gilbert, her black Labrador, and much of her wardrobe behind.
I miss Elise, with her easy ways and pragmatic approach to life. But I could not curb my carnal instincts no more than I could prevent the river’s restless flow to Le Havre.
And now I stand in the doorway, my eyes fixed on a triangle of thin cloth covering a thick Arabian pile.
But I cannot enter.
That bloody dog, so loyal to his mistress, is rolling on the bed, tongue lolling and drooling over freshly scented skin.
‘Marissa,’ I say, ‘I don’t suppose you could…’
Those jowls drawn back tight over hard teeth and red gums halt the breath from my lungs.
‘You want me to put him on the balcony?’ she answers.
Her face is alight with amusement. ‘But why would I do that? Gilbert belongs right here, unlike me.’
As I turn to leave, I hear her say, ‘Oh, did I mention, his claws need clipping. These red marks on my thighs are a real passion killer.’
Master Bedroom – Eric Fischl
© Talia Hardy 2015