Free Lucy's Launderette by Betsy Burke Page B

down to the floor. There were a few books lying around and one of the thicker tomes got me in the center of my back. My head was to one side and I could see dust-balls the size of tumbleweeds scudding around underneath the bed. Paul had the condom on in three of the deftest seconds I’ve ever witnessed, and within another twenty seconds, it was all over and he was flopped to one side puffing on a Sobranie and flicking ash onto the floor. I extracted a complete anthology of Henry Miller from between my shoulder blades.
    Let’s face it. First times never live up to their promise. It would improve. It would have to. We just needed time to get used to each other.
    He fell asleep like that, with the burning cigarette dangling between his fingers. I removed it and stubbed it out. Paul was comatose. I could barely see his breathing.
    I grabbed the black robe, pulled it tight around me and stretched out on his bed. I sank into sleep and dreamt I was in a field of wildflowers: poppies, daisies, dandelions, blue cornflowers, borage and lavender, dog roses, nasturtium and burning bush, crocuses, tansy, marigolds. Every season of flower had been rolled into one and dazzled my eyes with their brilliance.
    I was aware that there were women standing in the field, each one with a different petal’s color and fragility. A bird like a crow or raven flew overhead, blocking the sun, and in its wake a huge black cloud stopped over the field. It began to rain soot. The petal women melted into the mucky dark ground. I started to run, trying to escape the black rain, but it was like moving in molasses. The rain was coming harder and faster and now there was such loud thunder that I started awake and wondered where the storm was.
    It was my stomach rumbling.
    Paul was still asleep on the floor and I was famished. I got up, dressed myself and went over to his fridges. There were five of them, and somewhere inside one of them, there had to be a tiny little snack. I grabbed the handle and was about to open the door when a voice barked, “Get away from there.” Paul was sitting up and looking mean.
    â€œSorry, I didn’t realize you kept your victims’ bodies in the fridge.”
    He didn’t look amused. “You are never, ever to open any of those. Do you understand?”
    â€œI didn’t realize…”
    â€œDo? You? Understand?” he enunciated, as if I were a child.
    â€œI said I was sorry.”
    â€œJust as long as you understand.”
    My lower lip trembled and my eyes began to water.
    I know they say crying is healthy, cathartic, that it’s a bad idea to bottle it all up. But tell that to someone like me, a natural crier, whose tear ducts open up and produce whitewater rapids over the slightest provocation. Just once in my life, I longed to be less transparent.
    His evil expression softened. He came over and gave me a hug. “Lucy, Christ, I’m a wretched sod. No tears now. It’s where I keep the tools of my trade. Top secret. If you knew what was in there, you’d be susceptible. Some clever bugger of a journalist would find out you’ve been up here and make you spill the surprise. Surprise is a lot in my kind of art. So the less you know the better.”
    This was different from the other artists I’d known. The others were usually clubbing journalists over the head with their work, rough or finished.
    He coughed and looked at his watch. “You better hurry or you’ll be late for work.” As he hustled me out the door all I could think was, What, no breakfast? No white linen tablecloth? No croissants? No caffe latte?
    Chivalry was dead and buried.
    Before I started down the stairs, he pulled me back and gave me a proper kiss. “I’m only four blocks away from Rogues’ Gallery. Keep that in mind for your lunch break,won’t you? I’m usually here at that hour. Run along now.” He grinned and shut the door.
    Â 
    I hurried down the