Donna

He stood on the balcony, looking down at the street and the traffic below, and after a while, grew tired. He sat back down on the chair and thought about what more he could do with his life. But nothing came. And so, he decided it was late enough, then walked back into the room and turned the light out.

He woke late, got up and showered and shaved, looked at himself in the mirror. Saw a bespectacled middle-aged man with greying hair, looking back at him, giving him a shock, then got dressed and made his way down the stairs. An overcast sky, looking as though it was going to rain, tinging everything grey and blue. A tram stopped and he got on and sat down and looked out the window, at the city buildings moving past. After a while, it came to the city and he got off, walked up the hill to his place of work, a bar in a city restaurant.

He opened the door and saw the old woman cleaning glasses from behind the bar, looking like a giant-sized mole. Hunched over her work, a mop of grey hair hanging over her face, sleeves rolled up, skin like burnt pastry. He walked to the back to where the kitchen was and got changed and joined her, and, without looking up, she folded the cloth that she used to wipe down the benches, opened the bar and left. He stood, looking around at the immaculate bench tops, then went about his usual routine - checked the supply of whisky and beer, then stood, waiting for the afternoon crowd.

Not long after, the door creaked open and a man and a woman stepped inside, made their way up the stairs and sat on two of the bar stools, leaned into each other, looking like statues come to life. The man turned and looked at him and ordered.

‘Two whiskeys, thanks, bar tender. Ice.’

He made the drinks and the man put a bill on the counter. He put it in the cash-register and gave change, went back to polishing glasses, tried not to appear as though he was listening into their conversation, watched the man lean in and whisper something to her, something he couldn’t catch, and, at hearing it, she leaned back and roared with laughter, almost falling off the stool.

‘Oh, you didn’t!’

Another roar of laughter and the man looked at her and nodded, smiling.

‘That’s right, babe, we bought the whole place damn place out, completely crushed ‘em, sent ‘em back to their Mommas, or wherever the hell else they came from.’

The man leant back and downed the whiskey in one hit and slammed it on the counter, signalled for two more. He made them and put them on the counter, gave change and then two tradesmen came in and sat down, ordered beer. He put two bottles on the counter, then took the money and gave change. The door creaked open and a woman walked in - red heels and a dress; a body like a giant piece of fruit. The woman walked up the stairs and sat down on a stool, tossed long black hair over her shoulder, sent the tradesmen into silent hysterics, and then her gaze found his. She looked at him as though summing him up.

‘Beer, thanks.’

He quickly wiped down the counter and poured a glass, careful not to stare. She put money on the counter, picked up the glass and sipped it, then put it down and looked at him, seeming somehow amused.

‘What’s your name, bar tender?’

‘It’s Andy.’

‘Well, aren’t you going to ask me, mine?

He looked at her, bemused.

‘It’s Donna.’

She leant in and he saw that her skin and face looked to be so supple that it could have been made of plastic.

‘Come back to mine, after your shift, Andy, and we’ll see about your little problem.’

With that, she drank the rest of her beer, then put the glass on the table, reached into her purse and put a card down, then stood and walked out. He picked it up and saw writing, printed in scroll: ‘Madam Donna Cruise-mark. Grand Hotel, suite 8.’

He quickly put the card in his pocket, careful not to lose it, turned and saw more people approaching the bar. It wasn’t long before the place was packed and he was serving drinks to hoards of people, all swaying and carousing. At 8 pm, he pulled out his record collection and started loading vinyl, but couldn’t get his mind off her. At around one, he closed off the bar and turned off the stereo system and the crowd answered back with booing and hissing. He looked around at all the empty glasses and started collecting them and washing them up and waited for the last person to file out, before beginning the clean-up proper. An old lady stood, complaining as she left, calling him names, kicked over one of the tables, sent it crashing to the floor, then walked out, slamming the door shut. It took him no time to pack it all up, but all he could think about, was the woman and her body. He couldn’t believe what he had in his mind to do, that he was going to go to her room in the middle of the night! And, someone that he didn’t even know. And yet, there was something about her, that he plain couldn’t resist. He wiped it all down, did the money, then made it out the door and looked up the address, saw that it was within walking distance.

It was cold out, stinging his face. He walked past vacant windows, night-clubs and bars, then, after a while, came to the motel: a well-known building he had walked past a million times, a place where the posh would frequent, where only the uber-rich would stay. It looked locked; heavy doors shut; the façade lit up from the outside by exterior lights. He walked up the steps and tried the door, and found, to his surprise, that it was open, came to an empty foyer, where a man sat at a desk - sagging yellow skin that drooped on his face like old leather, glassed, bloodshot eyes. He looked at the man, but the man had his head down and didn’t seem interested in anything, and so, he walked over to the lift and pressed the button and waited for it.

The lights hit the ground floor and heavy metal doors opened to an empty compartment. He got in and pressed the number to her floor and looked up at it, his heart in his mouth, wondering, how he had suddenly become so bold. It made a dinging sound and he stepped out onto a dimly lit empty floor, and came to her room, and stood there, sweating, not knowing what to do with himself, feeling as though he was doing something unholy. He knocked on the door three times, and, a moment later, the door opened and he saw her, standing in front of him, some figment of his imagination, come to life, like out of a movie.  She gestured for him to come into the room and he did.

‘Didn’t think you’d make it.’

He looked at her, not knowing what he was doing. She walked over to him and stood up close, close enough that he could smell her perfume �" like peach. He felt her body press up against him, and then she was kissing him and leading him towards the bed, and he drank her in and slid into the bed with her, the whole thing like an erotic dream.

When he woke, the bed was empty. He threw the blanket off and sat up and looked around the room, but there was no sign of her, as though the whole thing was a figment of his imagination. He got out of the bed and looked around, stood and looked out the window, down at the city below, then got dressed and left, feeling as though he had broken the law and got away with it, but deep down, knowing that it was a heart-break, that he would never see her again, that he would never forget her, and may never find anyone anywhere near that level ever again, that something had happened that was irrevocable. But then, he didn’t even know her.

An overcast day, mid-winter, the sun coming down on the buildings and on the road, warming his face. He walked and got on a tram, looked out the window, watched the road slide past, couldn’t stop thinking about her, wondered if he ever would. Like ships in the night, he thought.

He made it back to his apartment building, hung-over, with her, opened the door and walked up the stairs and let himself in, put the keys on the bench and poured himself a glass of scotch, sat out on the balcony, and sipped it, looking down at the road below. Somewhere, some place, she was out there, doing what? He wondered. Then wondered if, maybe, it was better that he didn’t know. But wasn’t it an assumption? Who knew? Who knew anything? Would he ever see her again? He doubted it. But then, his doubt made little difference, either. Who was she? Probably, he would never know. Just one of those things. Inexplicable. Senseless? Seemed like so much of life didn’t make sense. One day he would take it up with his creator.

The scotch was warm in his mouth. He looked down and saw a car beep at another car and speed off. There was a lesson here, somewhere, but he was damned if could find it. Still, maybe he would see her again. Who was to say that she wouldn’t just walk back into his life again, walk back into the bar and order? Maybe he had started something? It was impossible to tell. It was impossible to tell anything. To live in the moment, that was the thing. But it wasn’t so easy, not after a thing like that. Who was she? He braced himself for the fact that he would never know - the whole thing more akin to a car accident than anything else, without the slightest hint of romance, whatsoever. Some senseless transaction. But wasn’t he being cynical, now? But he didn’t know her. And probably never would. But wasn’t he equally to blame for that fact? The answer was, yes. Yes, he was. And, he knew it. Still, the heart could recover. If there was one thing he knew, it was that.