Dead Letter Office

On a warm, wet evening in Atlanta he finds himself wondering.. why is it that horniness can be so random? He thinks cool thoughts to abate the images but they do not go away. Skin on skin. Power exchange. Vivid thoughts painted against the grey sky and carefully manicured lawns. He pulls the car over.

It seemed too good to be true. He'd not thought of sex for days. Then again, his wie returned and it had been six months since she'd been home. He closed his eyes and remembered her, in the hope he could make it all go away.

She looked so thin, when he saw her. Too thin. He stood in front of her, and she walked within six feet of him and kept right on walking. She had arrived early in the morning. Her baggage was waiting for her on the international carousel. He called out the number to her three times, once in a foreign language. Finally she heard him and went over to give him a hug. He was on the opposite side of the rail. They walked together, a rail dividing them. And then she turned to give him a hug and started crying. He held her over the rail, and she wept upon his shoulder. He picked her up over the rail and held her close.

Unfaithful, but dedicated -he helped her make her way to his car. She'd had her hair cut by someone who seemed to have worked her over with rusty garden shears. Her shoes were falling apart. He drove her to a hair stylist and while she was there, he burned her shoes and bought her new ones. And some clean clothes. He took her home and bathed her and set her down to rest.

She sleeps now in the middle of the day, completely worn out. She weighed only 80 pounds. He feeds her danish with orange peel for breakfast, and good dinner. He hands her pills to take. She must be strong enough.

He wants to divorce her and run away with another woman. He would trade her in for a younger model. How can any other woman, trust him, if he would do something like that? There would always be a younger woman. Nevertheless that was his plan. It would be the one who said never contact me. The one who sends every letter of his straight to hell. The one who doesn't take his calls. Typical city involved in the typical daydream. He thinks. He'd never changed, and neither did she. So why would things have been different? Maybe they are. Maybe he is. He's not here for fun, he's here to work. And the images are gone from his mind. Hang it up and see what tomorrow brings.

Driving past expensive homes in the grey mist he's suddenly horny again and it makes him laugh out loud. He'd been working nonstop all week. Both day and night. He was on his way to a meeting at someone's home.

His cellphone beeps that he's received a text, and it's from the other woman. And he flips the phone open and the message glows out of the dead letter office. He reads it. He battles with himself to reply.

And then he deletes it. And continues down the road. The cool grey mist falling on his windshield. He arrives at the nicely appointed home. She kept her Benz in the driveway. He goes inside, and in the living room is a picture of a nude, black line on white canvas. He flips open the laptop and gets to work.

And hour later he's back on the road again, fighting the worst that rush hour has to offer. He catches a heavy metal song on the radio. He turns it up so loud the windows shake. He's paid to keep his cool. He drives past people who are not paid at all.

A trail of blood makes it easy to find your way home.