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.
There he is. The symbol of our decaying souls.