The apartment’s smells, probably no longer registered by them, noticeable to me. Laundry, hairspray, old flowers, dampness, old carpet. The general run-down feel of a place being let to people who aren’t interested in staying and are interested in not paying too much. Almost universal for escorts passing through London, earning some money, moving on.
The woman turning to me, half-an-hour or an hour? No spark or smile or slightest twinge of excitement. The thing we’re about to do together, no more than a task.
Thinking quickly. I’ve got to get out of this. Not so much for the money, more because the possible pleasure is too precious to be lightly squandered. Sharing nakedness with this woman would be a permanent stain. A minor stain, sure, but still a stain.
Slipping into a prepared plan. Telling her, half-an-hour would be fine. Reaching in my pocket for the money, trying to seem slightly startled at finding none there, telling her, oh damn, I meant to stop at the cash machine, I forgot, must have been too excited, let me go and draw some money now.
The woman hardly responding at all, merely nodding. Our paths reversing through the living room, passing the other woman on the couch, still ignoring us, to the front door. Traversing the brick balcony, so full of promise on the way in, now containing a staleness. Walking away from the building, putting distance between myself and the whole episode.
Waiting for fifteen minutes, then texting her, sorry baby, while I was getting my cash I got a phonecall, I have to go back to the office, urgent business, see you some other time. Sending the text, betting myself she won’t respond. Checking after fifteen minutes, I was right, she didn’t.
Striding along the rainy pavements, feeling as if after narrow escape from a spiritual trap.
