Bell had followed him home. After a night of forty year old leaches in polyester groping her through thick clouds of stale cigar smoke at the Howard Johnson on route 60, she followed this tall stranger home.
She was on business travelling for this dot.com company that was about to fold at any moment. She was reduced from nights at the Ritz Carlton to rooms that the bed rolled down sunken v-shaped floors to rest in the center on 45 degree angles. Her only hope was that the bed stopped rolling before she was flung off. But these rare stays, which have been lately saving her from the uneasiness of sleeping in rest stops on the side of the highway. Dodging those midnight flashers that came knocking on her window and covering her ears from the moans of the men in the rest room. But here in lounge lizard heaven she wished for the ineptness of London fogs and the safety of the detestment of her sex. To tell the truth she did not mind the company of homosexuals, for her head could spin off her shoulders but she was guaranteed to be left solid standing on her feet.
But the emotion this crooner had felt and permeated through the clouds of smoke to smote the loudness of green polyester and lard that jingled and mashed about this room through gold bands hurried into small tight pockets. The scotch was stiff and so was everything else in this sausage factory for retiries. But when he sang it all faded away, he was a man of heartache and compassion, one to be tender, but then be full of explosives. I had little explosions going all night. The smoke from my ears just mingled with the rest around me unnoticed.
So I had to follow this lone keyboardist. Then when he went for his keys and turned the knob, he did not make a last minute slide of gold band onto his finger. I was golden if he would just notice me before he closed the door. So I yelled and slipped down onto my ass holding unto my ankle. He came running, a bit jostled he tried to catch his breathe amongst the words of