She poured bath oil in the tub, turned, and looked at herself in the full-length mirror and, singing along with Joni Mitchell, slowly stripped off the shirt, let it fall away from her shoulders, turned sideways, and studied her breasts, was pleased that they were still firm, curving up and away from her body, reached up under them and traced the curve with her fingertips, sliding her fingers out to the nipples, and squeezed them gently, watching them grow hard at her touch. She unbuttoned the jeans, pulled them over her hips, let them fall to the floor. Her panties had pulled down too, and she looked at her hair curling up over the top of them and ran her hand across the flat surface of her stomach, let her little finger slip down under the band, enjoyed the softness, and finally edged them down and stepped out of them, running her hands down the insides of her thighs, letting her thumbs ripple across the thick black down.
The beat of the music began to change to the blues and she hummed as Joni Mitchell sang:
She tested the water with a toe, slipped down into its oily warmth, let it envelop her, and lay back with her eyes closed, caressing her legs, her thighs. Her thumb found her belly button, lingered at its edge while the rest of her fingers slid down between her legs and she slowly pinched thumb and fingers together, lightly, slowly, and she thought about the elevator man, about his trim, hard body, the rugged face, the shattered nose.
And while Domino prepared herself for Victor, thoughts of the elevator man kept intruding. Intruding. Intruding...
She opened the door on the first ring and stood facing Sharky, her chin slightly raised, an arrogant, almost impish look on her face, her thick black hair, not quite dry yet, hanging damply about her ears. She wore no makeup. She didn’t need it and she knew she didn’t. She was wearing a scarlet floor-length kimono, silk, trimmed in brilliant yellow and split up both sides almost to the hip. There was nothing under it, nothing but her; he could tell by the way it stayed with her, moulded to her breasts, her hips, her flat stomach. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. The sweet odour of marijuana drifted past Sharky.
She smiled and said, ‘Well, I just lost a bet with myself.’.
‘How come?’
‘I bet you wouldn’t come.’
‘I can always go back.’
She stepped back, swung the door wide and leaned against it, cocking her head to one side. ‘No,’ she said, no, I don’t think so.’
He went past her, into the familiar living room, looked around, and feigned surprise. ‘Very elegant,’ he said, nodding his head.
She closed the door and came very close to him, staring up at his face for several seconds, then said, ‘Thank you.’
She had set a place for him on the smoked-glass table. A linen placemat with delicate silverware, Wedgwood china and a tall, fragile wine glass. ‘If you’d like to wash up, you can go in there,’ she said, pointing to the bathroom. The door to the massage room was closed. He went into the bathroom and washed his hands. Patches of mist lingered in the corners of the mirror and the room was warm with the memory of her bath and smelled vaguely of bath oil.
When he returned, she was pouring white wine into two glasses. She motioned for him to sit down. Soup steamed in the bowl.
There was a record playing, a soft ballad sung almost off-key by a Frenchman.
‘That’s a very pretty song,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.’
‘It’s called “The Dreams In Your Soul”. It’s my favourite song. That’s Claude DuLac. He’s very popular in France but it’s hard to find his albums over here. Americans don’t appreciate romantic singers anymore, do you think?’
‘No, I agree with you.’
I’m glad you like it.
‘I’m . .
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’
You’re getting pushy. Don’t rush it.
He swirled a pat of butter into yellow patterns on the surface of the soup. She raised her wine glass towards him.
