Would you care for a touch of skin, both sides up, bottom down, eyes wide open, windows closed, shutters down? asked the woman of the middle- aged man with the white beard and grey hair. On his left arm, he had a tattoo: DON’T COME CLOSE.
The man looked at the ceiling and tried to grasp a fly. Heh! it’s me that’s talking to you! You paid me to have some female company. So at least have the decency to listen to me when spoken to. The man let himself fall onto the bed and closed his eyes. He spread his arms and let out a deep sigh. The woman reached out her hand and touched his body which felt like a latex doll, the rubber not bouncing back her touch.
I feel no pain, the woman whispered; her words seemed to float through the air to the shutters, bounce back to the ceiling and then from the ceiling back to the man. She looked at his ears and then at his mouth. There was no movement of his senses. The woman walked on her toes and opened the door of the room. She looked at the man lying on the bed. The man stiffened and his mouth opened. The woman closed the door of the room after having stepped outside.
She turned the lock and attached a cardboard sign: OCCUPIED.