Twenty-Five Euros
Later, after all the White Russians, she snagged one leg on the sharp sticking-out edge of the bed. Twenty-five euros worth of fine black thread – it was the only thing she’d wanted in Paris from a man who probably didn’t love her but offered the city and all of its lights.
“Fishnet stockings?” he’d half-whispered, glancing over his shoulder in the posh department store where she could have chosen a fur, diamonds, couture for Christ’s sake.
A slow, sure nod, and he believed her. They were wrapped up, paid for and taken away.
Back at the hotel, she ripped open the paper and carefully pulled the cardboard out from inside the nets. Dropped it, her skirt and panties to the floor. Then one leg at a time – toes, ankle, shin, knee, thigh were caught in a web of sex. Toes, ankle, shin, knee, thigh.
She buckled on a pair of Mary Janes and walked into the bathroom where he was pressing a sharp blade against the lather of cream on his cheeks. He spied her reflection, and the razor fell into the sink.
“Feel them,” she said, pulling him over to the bathtub ledge. His fingers, delighting at the cool contrast between fabric and flesh, ran over the intricate pattern, tracing lines that led him in circles until he forced the route up, up, up.
Undaunted by mess, she grabbed hold of his hair and pulled his soapy face down towards the labyrinth. His teeth caught a fiber, his tongue savored a bit of skin, and he was lost in the modish maze.
Copyright © 2004 by Esther Haze. All rights reserved.
Esther Haze lives on the edge of New York City, where she writes music reviews and hosts an eclectic collection of hosiery in three separate dresser drawers.
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