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sevenpercentsolution
Supernova
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2009
2001
In the cool of the evening,
When everything is getting kinda groovy
The night was middle-aged and the air in Manhattan was cool and sharp, Autumn twilight slashing orange and pink through a dark sky that was already stippled with stars, the world swapping sharp relief for mood lighting. A hanging harvest moon was enormous on the horizon, reflecting off of the curvature of an old stone beast, an elegant relic of the late 1800s, maintained with the same delicacy and precision that one used for a religious artifact.
People cycled in and out of a lobby reminiscent of a mausoleum, the decorative choices of someone with moody tastes, a balance between ecclesiastical and tomb-like, vaulted ceilings and stone walls and arched windows that let in the night sky and low gold lighting.
At the marble and steel gates stood a man of indeterminate age, his face serene, his posture rigid, poised with a fountain pen.
"You are staying with us for three nights?" he asked, his Haitian accent like curls of smoke, floating up around his words, a buzz of nicotine in the veins, melody. In front of him was a man in leather gloves and a Vicuña coat, standing with his head tilted ceiling-ward, his hair a bright shock in a world of shadows, amber lighting bringing out the gold and copper in the strands.
"You know," he replied, his voice tranquil, observing the gatekeeper with big, sleepy eyes, "I could listen to you read a cookbook for hours."
"We desire to please."
"Consider me sated, then. Three nights will suffice."
You call me up and ask me,
Would I like to go with you and see a movie?
He stood and looked out on the long narrow stretch of lower Manhattan, in a corner room with its curved windows, knotting his tie and using the glass for his reflection. He moved down the hallway as he shrugged on his jacket, taking the service elevator to the basement, the old mechanics moving smoothly, pulling the steel gate aside and passing the kitchens, the laundry room.
He pushed a coin into the slot beside the door. The grate opened. The grate closed. The world opened.
At first I say: "No, I've got some plans for tonight."
But then I stop,
And say: "Alright"
He breathed in, the scent of Nepalese smoke and Vernier fragrances, thousands of dollars worth of sensate simply hanging in the air, the base notes of the elite. A room full of hedonists and sensualists that saw the value in the fleeting and temporary, which served them in their duties.
Subtle gazes wandered in his direction, surprise registering on more than a few faces. It had been a while since his last stay, but there was a scotch waiting on the bar for him, his name beside it.
As he took it, a woman at the bar turned her head and watched him - she couldn't have been twenty yet, her face so free of lines or stress, her mass of dark hair pulled back severely, lips done in baby pink that didn't match the severity of her features. She was observing him in a parted-lip sort of way that he knew intimately, recognition and desire, and he returned her gaze.
"You're very young." he said.
"Not that young." she replied and her voice was as sharp as her cheekbones, a hammer swing done up in lace, "703. Maybe you can give me some pointers."
He cocked his head, shifted his jaw forward, the corner of his mouth quirking at her boldness before he clicked his tongue, nodded his departure, and moved from the bar. Around the room, he was observed from corners of eyes and reflections in mirrored walls before he sat across from a man in a high collar and ascot.
They watched each other for a moment, silent stoicism before dual smiles crept up their faces.
"And where have you been?" Winston asked.
"Phonthong. It's a story." he replied.
"Last I heard, you were thrown overboard somewhere."
"Vientiane is landlocked, but I suppose the dam would be sufficient. One can drown a man in three inches of water. At any rate, I'm an excellent swimmer. Join me in the bath, I'll show you."
"Already misbehaving." Winston said, hiding a smile by looking into his drink, "It's good to see you, Red."
"Likewise."
"Are you back for long?"
Red tapped his index finger against the table for a moment, considering this,
"We'll just have to wait and see."
Love is kinda crazy with a spooky little boy like you.
In the cool of the evening,
When everything is getting kinda groovy
The night was middle-aged and the air in Manhattan was cool and sharp, Autumn twilight slashing orange and pink through a dark sky that was already stippled with stars, the world swapping sharp relief for mood lighting. A hanging harvest moon was enormous on the horizon, reflecting off of the curvature of an old stone beast, an elegant relic of the late 1800s, maintained with the same delicacy and precision that one used for a religious artifact.
People cycled in and out of a lobby reminiscent of a mausoleum, the decorative choices of someone with moody tastes, a balance between ecclesiastical and tomb-like, vaulted ceilings and stone walls and arched windows that let in the night sky and low gold lighting.
At the marble and steel gates stood a man of indeterminate age, his face serene, his posture rigid, poised with a fountain pen.
"You are staying with us for three nights?" he asked, his Haitian accent like curls of smoke, floating up around his words, a buzz of nicotine in the veins, melody. In front of him was a man in leather gloves and a Vicuña coat, standing with his head tilted ceiling-ward, his hair a bright shock in a world of shadows, amber lighting bringing out the gold and copper in the strands.
"You know," he replied, his voice tranquil, observing the gatekeeper with big, sleepy eyes, "I could listen to you read a cookbook for hours."
"We desire to please."
"Consider me sated, then. Three nights will suffice."
You call me up and ask me,
Would I like to go with you and see a movie?
He stood and looked out on the long narrow stretch of lower Manhattan, in a corner room with its curved windows, knotting his tie and using the glass for his reflection. He moved down the hallway as he shrugged on his jacket, taking the service elevator to the basement, the old mechanics moving smoothly, pulling the steel gate aside and passing the kitchens, the laundry room.
He pushed a coin into the slot beside the door. The grate opened. The grate closed. The world opened.
At first I say: "No, I've got some plans for tonight."
But then I stop,
And say: "Alright"
He breathed in, the scent of Nepalese smoke and Vernier fragrances, thousands of dollars worth of sensate simply hanging in the air, the base notes of the elite. A room full of hedonists and sensualists that saw the value in the fleeting and temporary, which served them in their duties.
Subtle gazes wandered in his direction, surprise registering on more than a few faces. It had been a while since his last stay, but there was a scotch waiting on the bar for him, his name beside it.
As he took it, a woman at the bar turned her head and watched him - she couldn't have been twenty yet, her face so free of lines or stress, her mass of dark hair pulled back severely, lips done in baby pink that didn't match the severity of her features. She was observing him in a parted-lip sort of way that he knew intimately, recognition and desire, and he returned her gaze.
"You're very young." he said.
"Not that young." she replied and her voice was as sharp as her cheekbones, a hammer swing done up in lace, "703. Maybe you can give me some pointers."
He cocked his head, shifted his jaw forward, the corner of his mouth quirking at her boldness before he clicked his tongue, nodded his departure, and moved from the bar. Around the room, he was observed from corners of eyes and reflections in mirrored walls before he sat across from a man in a high collar and ascot.
They watched each other for a moment, silent stoicism before dual smiles crept up their faces.
"And where have you been?" Winston asked.
"Phonthong. It's a story." he replied.
"Last I heard, you were thrown overboard somewhere."
"Vientiane is landlocked, but I suppose the dam would be sufficient. One can drown a man in three inches of water. At any rate, I'm an excellent swimmer. Join me in the bath, I'll show you."
"Already misbehaving." Winston said, hiding a smile by looking into his drink, "It's good to see you, Red."
"Likewise."
"Are you back for long?"
Red tapped his index finger against the table for a moment, considering this,
"We'll just have to wait and see."
Love is kinda crazy with a spooky little boy like you.