Monday, February 14

fever sweats in Chanel couture


Im in crisp white sheets. A hotel bed is cleaner than a hospital. Or so Ive been told. Plum wine on the bed stand. Lit cigarettes in the ashtray. In both hands and mouth. Im to sick to smoke. To tired to care.

She: A hotel doctor. Sent up to make sure NO ONE DIES on the seventh floor. White coat, blond hair. Pink lips. A sent that reminds me of spring and blossom. Smiling. Almost to fresh, to healthy. Judging the activity in the room, trying to hide it. Failing miserably.

I: Feverish for days. Shiny eyes. No, not shiny . They're rather wet, but not from tears. Heavy breathing. Panic when the cold stethoscope touches my bare back. Inhale. Exhale. Avoiding her. Piercing my own skin with sharp nails. No no, I am not sick.

And outside, just as the blond doctor leaves I spot something dark outside my window. With trembling steps I make my way to the balcony. One centimeter at a time.

4 comments:

Anonymous said...

Even chanel made mistakes at some stage. And size 46? I don't get the point of that picture anyway, what are you trying to say? fashion gone bad and old?

But.

I love you.

Christopher said...

I'd like to hear more about this doctor. She sounds like she could be dispassionately interesting.

Tabs A. Geek said...

You better not be getting too sick.

<3

Susan said...

I love you.