There’s a place on the edge of town and we call it the House of Painted Ladies. You get all sorts there, so long as they got money to throw. Men who don’t think they’re cheating on their wives and some men who do. And boys thinking to learn a thing or two before they sleep with their real girls. And teachers and doctors and priests, respectable men wearing outsize hats and the collars of their coats turned up so they are no so quickly known. And lonely men, too, quiet men and shy men who aint got no one to talk to in the street where they live, not love-talk leastways.
And the painted ladies is just ord’nary, every one of ‘em, though they look pretty with what they do to theyselves. Not even ladies some of ‘em, but just girls who think making love must be easier as filing papers all day or serving fish or making dresses. And though they look soft as feathers, they is some of ’em hard as thrown punches if they is crossed. They hang from the windows of the House of Painted Ladies and they call to all the men passing, some of ‘em by name, and they laugh and make the day a little brighter with their laughing.
Marsha is the girl I pay a visiti to and she greets me like I am a brother or a friend she has not seen in some time and has missed. And she asks after my wife and the children and she says she hopes little ‘Livia is recovered from her fever, which is a mark of how much Marsha cares and remembers what we talk ‘bout.
We climb the stairs to Marsha’s room at the top of the house and I am breathless when she turns the key in the door – breathless from the stairs and breathless a little with anticipation. I tell her she’s looking pretty as peaches or pears and she says me thank you. And I ask her after the smell on her skin, which is just rosewater she says, rosewater plain and simple.
We take a glass of chilled white wine first and I lay the money in folded notes on the table. Marsha don’t count it and she don’t need to. I been coming to the House of Painted Ladies for almost three years. Once a month and regular as pay day. And Marsha knows me and maybe she loves me, too. She makes me think she does, which is the same thing, I think.
We takes our time and we play it easy. Not like the first times when everything was quick as in and out. Now we linger, and no shame in what we don, linger over kisses and touches, like we’re slowly reaching for something. And Marsha makes noises that are like the sounds kittens make when they is asleep and dreaming. And slow don’t cost a penny more, just as fast don’t save you a penny neither.
And after, when we is both laid back on Marsha’s bed, and the room is still spinning and we is both catching our breath, I say that I love her, dare to put a feeling into words. She don’t say a thing, not ’bout loving me back nor ’bout what my wife might have to say if she knew. Marsha, she just purrs, and so I think it is ok to have said that.
I watch her dress before it’s over. And she looks in the mirror when she’s done, and she adjusts her hair and paints her lips so they look fresh and she pinches her cheeks. A little rosewater dabbed on her neck and she’s as good as new.
Then I dress and we climb back down the stair, a different breathless when we are at the bottom. And Marsha takes my hand, which is to put things back to the way they was before we ascended – to Heaven or to Marsha’s room – and she wishes me only well and my wife and children well, too.
There’s a place on the edge of town and we call it the House of Painted Ladies. You get all sorts there, so long as they got money to throw. Men who don’t think they’re cheating on their wives and some men who do. And boys thinking to learn a thing or two before they sleep with their real girls. And teachers and doctors and priests, respectable men wearing outsize hats and the collars of their coats turned up so they are no so quickly known. And lonely men, too, quiet men and shy men who aint got no one to talk to in the street where they live, not love-talk leastways.
And the painted ladies is just ord’nary, every one of ‘em, though they look pretty with what they do to theyselves. Not even ladies some of ‘em, but just girls who think making love must be easier as filing papers all day or serving fish or making dresses. And though they look soft as feathers, they is some of ’em hard as thrown punches if they is crossed. They hang from the windows of the House of Painted Ladies and they call to all the men passing, some of ‘em by name, and they laugh and make the day a little brighter with their laughing.
Marsha is the girl I pay a visiti to and she greets me like I am a brother or a friend she has not seen in some time and has missed. And she asks after my wife and the children and she says she hopes little ‘Livia is recovered from her fever, which is a mark of how much Marsha cares and remembers what we talk ‘bout.
We climb the stairs to Marsha’s room at the top of the house and I am breathless when she turns the key in the door – breathless from the stairs and breathless a little with anticipation. I tell her she’s looking pretty as peaches or pears and she says me thank you. And I ask her after the smell on her skin, which is just rosewater she says, rosewater plain and simple.
We take a glass of chilled white wine first and I lay the money in folded notes on the table. Marsha don’t count it and she don’t need to. I been coming to the House of Painted Ladies for almost three years. Once a month and regular as pay day. And Marsha knows me and maybe she loves me, too. She makes me think she does, which is the same thing, I think.
We takes our time and we play it easy. Not like the first times when everything was quick as in and out. Now we linger, and no shame in what we don, linger over kisses and touches, like we’re slowly reaching for something. And Marsha makes noises that are like the sounds kittens make when they is asleep and dreaming. And slow don’t cost a penny more, just as fast don’t save you a penny neither.
And after, when we is both laid back on Marsha’s bed, and the room is still spinning and we is both catching our breath, I say that I love her, dare to put a feeling into words. She don’t say a thing, not ’bout loving me back nor ’bout what my wife might have to say if she knew. Marsha, she just purrs, and so I think it is ok to have said that.
I watch her dress before it’s over. And she looks in the mirror when she’s done, and she adjusts her hair and paints her lips so they look fresh and she pinches her cheeks. A little rosewater dabbed on her neck and she’s as good as new.
Then I dress and we climb back down the stair, a different breathless when we are at the bottom. And Marsha takes my hand, which is to put things back to the way they was before we ascended – to Heaven or to Marsha’s room – and she wishes me only well and my wife and children well, too.