A Flophouse—MORNING
I am drilling holes into the plaster wall, then ramming red and white chaining pins through to make sure the holes are clear. I wish I could do the same with my stuffy head. I cannot think anymore. I just do what I am told.
Case in point. Iris has told me to drill these holes in my walls. I’ve been at it all night with my hammer and chisel. Likely much to the detriment of hotel, though that is their problem for not requiring a security deposit. Red and white Iris says she needs the holes in the wall to make what she calls an “an ear trumpet to the other side,” which will allow her to hear the voices of the spirits that infest this shabby room.
I look to her, lying on my cot, for approval. Red and white Iris, lying there in her panties, barley covered by a sweat-soaked sheet. Bloody mop of hair, freckles and sunburned highlights accenting the pale white body.
Red and white Iris.
“Okay. I’ve done it. We’ve holes in every wall. Can you hear them now?”
“No, not on a Sunday morning, I can’t,” she smiles, “A lazy Sunday morning. Let’s fool around!” And with this she flings back the sheet to reveal the red and the white in its entirety. I drop my tools and lunge for her, pressing my erection against her to show that I take the offer seriously.
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