Confessions Of A Falling Woman And Other Stories

one of my better features. Not subtle, but if you want to catch a fish, use the shiny lure.

(In the far corner he spotted her, as cool and alluring as a mirage.)

I am determined not to go to bed alone tonight. Not that finding someone to fuck is a challenge; on the road, it's much easier than getting room service or extra towels, but, when possible, I prefer the semblance of romance. Romance requires more patience, laying the groundwork. I've been working on this one for weeks, creating opportunities to be swept away. I can't speak for the reality, but I like the illusion of falling in love.

Romance is always a gamble and, frankly, the odds are against you. But if you gamble long enough, you develop certain strategies: bluffing, waiting out the bad deals, trusting your intuition when it comes, whatever you think will shorten those odds. I picked out Pavel back in Cleveland. His name gave him a decided advantage over the rest of the males in the company. Pavel Milov. It's a Czech name, docked of all the extra ^'s and z9s when he became an actor, but still exotic, a quality I prize highly. Sounds like a freedom fighter or an expatriate poet. Scratch the surface and they're all the same, but you learn not to scratch.

As it happens, the surface of Pavel is gorgeous. Not tall, but very sculpted, with a languid smile and eyes the green of beach glass. Maybe gorgeous is too much; he is definitely short and his nose is a tad beakish. He is also married, but I can overlook that. In fact, sometimes that can work in your favor. If you lose, they go back to their wives and you can tell yourself truthfully it was no reflection on you.

(When she stepped through the stage door, the perfume of bougainvillea and saltwater drifted out of the lush dark. The surf was as quiet and rhythmic as breathing.)

The door behind me screeches and thuds shut. It's Pavel. I don't believe in luck; I believe that people get what they deserve. I say 'pretty night' like an invitation, and smile. I'm not going anywhere, got no plans. I brush an imaginary hair away from my cheek. His eyes dart back and forth, then he grabs my elbow and yanks me down a step, out of the light.

(His handsome features betrayed no emotion, but something in his manner hinted at danger.)

He says, 'Let's go for a walk.' I'll admit this is easier than I'd expected.

We slip around the back side of the theater and walk past the loading dock, toward the sound of the ocean. At the far corner of the building, he slows his pace and then stops.

'Come here,' he says. He pulls me through a thicket of bushes and presses my back against the concrete wall. I feel his hands push up under my T-shirt and knead my sunburned flesh. I whimper, but it sounds convincingly like passion.

(When they kissed, her blood rose like warm water over her head.)

I'm not about to get laid in the bushes, so I loosen his grip on my tits and pull away ever so slightly, catching my breath. 'I like the way you walk.'

'Okay, we'll walk. It's a good mile back to the motel. I've got a pint of scotch in my room.'

'Don't you think they'll miss us?' Like I care.

'I told them I had to get back and call home.'

The dead palm fronds that litter the sidewalk rustle like paper in the warm breeze. Between blinding sweeps of headlights, the sky is black overhead and dusty with stars. I'm feeling helium-light, my feet almost skipping. I kick at an empty beer can, sending it clattering on ahead. I want to throw out my arms and twirl, to make the stars spin.

(He swept her up in his strong arms. They whirled across the dance floor, and out onto the starlit balcony.)

You have to squint hard to endow the Sand Drift Motel with charm. It is a sagging pink stucco, parked on the main drag to pick off weary motorists. From a distance it looks vaguely festive, but up close the neon vacancy sign lurches drunkenly and the orange-lit plaster fountain is dry and caked with algae. When Pavel unlocks his door and snaps on the overhead light, any last fragments of illusion shrivel.

He quickly pulls shut the flimsy curtains. I make a bee-line for the ceramic lamp and then turn off the switch at the door. He is moving toward me, already fiddling with a button on his shirt. So I say, 'How about that drink you promised me?' I don't like to be rushed.

I fetch two water glasses from the top of the toilet tank and unwrap them while he rummages through the suitcase spread open on one of the beds. I sit on the edge of the unmade bed and feign interest in a tourist guide put out by the local Chamber of Commerce. He fills my glass, stretches out next to me and we drink.

'Say something to me in Czech. '

He laughs. 'Oh God, you're kidding. I don't speak a word. I mean, a phrase or two, but nothing…'

'Whatever.'

'Whatever. Okay. 'Jdi do prdele.''

'That's beautiful. What does it mean?'

'Fuck off.' All I can remember are the obscenities. The others are worse; my grandfather was a randy guy.'

Pavel is off on some story his grandfather told him about a prostitute. I settle back against the headboard and drink steadily until my body feels boneless and airy. Through the open window, there is splashing in the pool. The curtains billow slightly, ballooning the faded cotton orchids and making the hula girls sway. I swallow another mouthful of the scotch and follow its heat threading down my middle, out my limbs.

My voice sounds far away. 'Do you do this all the time?'

'He says this to a nine-year-old kid.' Pavel is still rattling on about grandpa. 'What's that?'

'Do you do this all the time? Seduce women up to your room.'

'Oh.' He smiles. 'Only the beautiful ones.'

'And have there been a lot of beautiful women?'

'Not like you.'

I'm not beautiful, but it doesn't matter. We will pretend that I am. One arm slides around me and the other clicks off the lamp on the nightstand. Blue light from the pool ripples across the walls.

At first I watch myself from a distance, guiding my hands, tilting my throat back, scoring like music the gasps and the moans. But gradually I fall under the spell of my own acting or the rhythm of the act, it doesn't matter which. I have forgotten myself for a while.

(The passion they had hidden exploded like a volcano and swept them along in its current. She had never imagined it could feel like this.)

We lie in the blue shadows, stretched out across the rubble of chlorine-smelling sheets and gritty bits of sand. Pavel gets up and goes into the bathroom, and I can hear him taking a leak. When he comes back to the bed, he passes me his water glass with its half-inch of warm scotch and I drain it. I run my fingers across the mat of damp curls on his chest.

I turn my face away from his and let my eyes fill with water. I have landed more than one part because I can produce real tears on cue. If the scene is well written, it happens on its own, like stepping out of my life and becoming the vision. If not, I think of my mother backing the station wagon over our cat, Buster, when I was nine. Tonight I'm on a roll and the tears feel genuine.

I wait for Pavel to feel the silence in the room, and then I inhale jaggedly. He lifts my chin in his hand, turns my face toward his, and asks me what's the matter. Nothing, I tell him, but he persists. Finally I say, in a shattered whisper, that I'm afraid I could get too attached to him. He is surprised, but I can tell he doesn't doubt for a minute that this is possible. His drowsy eyes focus sharp, and tiny fissures crinkle across his brow.

It's risky to suggest consequences. They can panic, suddenly flash on the wife and kiddies back home and start backpedaling. On the other hand, feeling desired, even loved, is a powerful aphrodisiac. Who doesn't want that fantasy?

(He took her in his strong arms and whispered her name like a prayer. What they felt might be crazy, he said, but love was like that.)

'Well, I could get pretty attached to you, too. Especially if you keep doing that with your hand.'

I'm drifting off when the phone rings, loud as an alarm. Pavel stretches out lazily for the receiver and cradles it against his shoulder while he lights a cigarette.