The Black and Fish Scale Sheen of Oily Eye Makeup

The black and fish scale sheen of oily eye makeup stained the musty pillow beneath Isola’s sweaty, aching head. Her black hair made strands of thick sex appeal. This is a woman at the hight of envelopment in progressive aesthetics. The music she smokes to is a combination of serious art and battery driven pedals. Her walls are scrawled on, spot lit from damaged blinds, hiding its flat face in lines. At this moment, a man would fall in love with her easy beauty. She lays in bed, passing this critical moment in sleep while the cigarette burns out on the edge of the nightstand. 

 Isola  moved out of bed in a shadow at an early hour of the day. Her voice hacked through the mucous in her chest and throat telling the man to leave. She lit a cigarette and the light just streaming in showed her body’s silhouette under her white shirt. She sat at the edge, her foot playing with a piece of footwear, leaning to her hand pressed into the musty sheets saying again, “Leave”.

“I’m going,” he said, “but let me tell you what I dreamt.” He rambled on about a convoluted sequence of events as if his unconsciousness could save him. She finished her cigarette while pulling on jeans and emptied a bottle, which was there by the bed, into her mouth not even looking down as she slips her feet into expensive shoes. She wiped her lips of the liquor and flipped open a matchbook. She asked, “Is that it?”

Isola struck a match to light the book. The man jumped out of bed grabbing for clothes as she tossed the flames at him. She pulled a pistol from under her pillow and shot three times at him. He collapsed, just as he would have if he had lived a full life. He was dead just the same. Isola had swiped his money in the dark and now as she jumped through a window into the sunlit day, she cleared her throat, spitting the loose phlegm to the trash collected on the ground. 

Isola committed to a slow deliberate trek from the bed to the window when red lights had begun to flash in her crack motel room. The common sight led her to believe in killing the wasted junkies, ending the misery of this dump of a community. She leaned to the blinds still in the dark to stare through the window at a crazed man and six civil servants strapping him to a stretcher. One of the servants peered into her window as the emergency lights flashed her face and gave his best condemning glare. Isola turned to search the outlines of things in the dark as the old man, still in bed, breathed heavily watching her. She smoked a cigarette at the edge of the bed as the room suffocated the old couple closer to death. 

 She, being sensitive to changes in air pressure, woke in the dark feeling an exterior door had been opened. She felt for the putter by the bed and took one deep breath from the musty sheets. Isola steps gently through the hallway holding the putter elbows high. Her shadow spreads out from patio lights shining into windows. A change in wind had jarred a side door open because of a faulty lock. Isola stood in the dark, seeing that everything was still in place. She lit a cigarette to ease her nerves, walking gently back to bed. In her room, she watched the man sleeping to get his full eight. Her grip on the putter finally relaxed as she put her cigarette out, easing back to bed which had cooled.

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