"Angel Of The Morning"

Beatriz Batista wakes up in the morning hours of the night and lies in bed staring at the ceiling, disoriented, trying to remember where she was. Becoming aware of the unconscious body lying farther away from her, she remembers.

The room is dark, lit only by the faint, orange glow of street lights coming through the thin curtains. The air is very chilly and she begins contemplating leaving the comfy, warm haven of blankets or suffer the cold torture. She knows if she stays, she’ll fall back to sleep in a matter of seconds and then she’ll be up when he is and then things will get awkward.

Without giving her body time to adapt to the stark change in temperature, she throws herself out of bed and hits the carpeted floor with an audible thud. She looks up quickly, though cautiously, to see if the noise disturbed her bedfellow, but he only stirred.

Wonderful. He didn’t look like a heavy sleeper, must be the alcohol. God bless the Lush!

Stealthily she scampers across the floor in a crouch, picking up her discarded clothes and crawls into the adjacent room. She stands, holds in a slow breath as she closes the door until it clicks while releasing the breath and gently flicks the light switch.

The compact bathroom is pretty much standard: medicine cabinet over the sink, linen closet, toilet, bathtub/shower combo, with walls half tiled in dark burgundy the rest painted some ugly maroon color that cracks and peels off the ceiling in the corners. Strange color for a bathroom. This guy didn’t seem the colorful type so it’s was more than likely his girlfriend’s idea. She may have also had something to do with the bathroom being orderly and clean because this guy also didn’t seem clean or orderly.

Beatriz dresses, washes her face, and applies lip gloss. She enjoys the pungent yet pleasant smell of men’s cologne coming from the medicine cabinet.

The guy was an ok lover, might become better with more experience or at least sans alcohol. Before all the drinking his demeanor was friendly and likable, but as the shot glasses began littering the bar, the more vulgar he became, which wasn’t a necessarily bad thing. Made him more likable. She didn’t really care for that small pleasant talk when it became obvious what they wanted from each other and was especially glad when he talked less about the tiff he was going through with his girlfriend. He blamed her nagging, domineering, whining and all-around bitchiness and even though she had only known him for the night, she couldn’t imagine it being for naught. Probably didn’t even deserve her…

She went home with him mainly because he didn’t really try to persuade her in that uncomfortable, sleazy way most drunk men do and he was such a handsome piece of trash. Secondly, in this state, he would need a designated driver.

He wasn’t the most confidant man she had had but again, that was probably (hopefully) the booze. The one thing she didn’t like was how he used dirty talk to make up for his sexual prowess or the lack of it. When it came to foreplay or just the main event itself, she felt words spoiled things and made them feel awkward when you just met your boy or girl friend for the night. Dirty talk always reminded her of those depraved old white men who picked up prostitutes in Donald Goines novels and that thought is definitely mood killing. Instead, she just let gentle nibbles and well placed touches do the work.

Beatriz opens the door and pokes her head out, clicks off the light. He’s still sleeping; let’s make a break for it. She pussyfoots across the bedroom toward the door and checks out the rest of his dark apartment. It’s pretty much standard like the bathroom, neat, again credited to the girlfriend. She walks past an alcove and in the center of the middle shelve sits a framed professionally shot photo of the guy’s girlfriend. She picks it up gingerly and looks at it closely in the dark.

She’s a very pretty girl: blonde bob, sparkling blue eyes, cute smile. She even has dimples, the face of a cherub. Makes her wonder why he lowered his standard to fuck a cheap slut like her. Maybe because this girl looks like the kind to throw a fit if you whispered filthy things to her, too pure and pristine to hear such naughty terms. But then again, the sweetest looking apples turn out to be rotten to the core. Beatriz sits it back in its place and leaves like a thief in the night, as was her custom.

Outside orange lights the noiseless street and her heels fill the void making a hellish racket against the pavement. The Skirts serenade her with “Alabama Blonde” on her Walkman, and so desperately she wished her headphones weren’t so shitty. There’s no way anyone could fully value grandeur of The Skirts if only one headphone works, but what else can be expected when they were purchased for five dollars?

With a sigh she presses on and senses a car creeping behind her. She doesn’t think much of it, thinking it’ll drive by in a second, but when it continues to linger behind, a feeling swells inside her stomach. It’s not fear that overcomes her, but anticipation of what is or what will happen.

The car accelerates slightly and cruises abreast of her. Beatriz now gets the impression that the driver of the white Taurus expected her to stop and go to the passenger window.

At this time of night the prostitutes are out and about and since she takes walks at this time of night very often, it is very often that she is mistaken for a lady of the night, even by police. For some reason when she answered their question as to why she was out so late in her current fashion (usually her leather jacket, a skirt or pair of pants that fitted her glorious curves like a second skin, and of course “hooker” boots or any type of heels) with something along the lines of “Because I like to”, “Because I felt like it”, or “I’m going to buy cigarettes and decided to take the scenic route” (all were truth at the time) they thought she was being some “smug wise-ass” and got all huffy.

They would continue their harassment with more questions and sometimes a search but eventually let her off by warning her of all the “not nice guys” on the prowl and offered her a ride usually, the nicer ones. Sometimes she took the offer and the uncomfortable silence in the squad car between her in the back and the patrolman in the front. Other times she would decline and lone it, laughing to herself, amused. Fuckin’ pigs…

This guy was one of these “not nice guys” they warned her about. The supposed john, obviously drunk, rolled down his window and called out to her twice. Beatriz’s sense of hearing is of course partially occupied; she hears him, but chooses to disregard him, hoping he’ll realize he won’t get what he’s looking for and go away.

The john does not appreciate having his salutation ignored and becomes indignant towards her. He showed his spite by slurring out what ever insult came into his alcohol saturated mind. Even called her a “grubby bastard” (“I know you are...” she thought) and drove away when he spent all his venom.

Beatriz was relieved when the john stopped wasted his time and embarrassing himself but then felt sorry for the significant other she was sure he had at home and how she must be lying in bed with tears in her eyes, worrying and how she would have to put up with that drunken fool blabber.

She made it to her apartment building safely, caught the elevator, and drifted in and out of sleep as it floated up to the fifth floor.

When she made it into her loft apartment she was greeted by Minino, the raggedy, homeless kitten she had decided to take in after the cute little thing had followed her home on one of her night walks. She had tried to shoo it away but he just looked at her with those big grayish purple eyes, one with a scar going down the middle and she turned into mush. The friendly feline walked between and brushed against the inside of her ankles with his tail up and wandered into the bedroom.

Beatriz headed for the bathroom, not as orderly as the guy’s bathroom and took a brief, scalding hot shower. She felt so relaxed and lightheaded while drying off she went to bed in the nude (her favorite kind of pajamas). She felt Minino curl into a ball of heat and nuzzle against her as she drifted into slumber, held snugly in soft sheets and warm blankets.