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Woman in a Man’s Game

April 9, 2013 Leave a comment Go to comments

By Robin Brox
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He was a little man with round glasses and a piebald head and he emerged awkwardly from beneath the surf, his skin a delicious malachite hue that belied his otherwise grotesque appearance.  I watched him towel off and stared hard at the center of his taut short pants where I could sense an ethereal bulge that I knew would whisk any woman away to a place where no eternity existed and where there would be only an endless corkscrew pounding like some ancient, mythical rotary tool lost to mankind.

I followed him up to the hotels.  He ducked along a fading side street and the air suddenly became rarefied and then stale with a deep and resolute masculine musk.  I collapsed briefly against a pushcart popcorn vendor and then into some small garden fencing that surrounded a weedy, unkempt little lawn.  I remained there, up on one hip, staring across at the piebald man as he entered a dilapidated flophouse known as “The Emerald Inn”.

Minutes later, I entered the lobby.  It was adorned in unfashionable browns and purples and manned by a frowzy, corpulent islander.  I walked up to his little counter kingdom and, by means of cutting off the light with my quaking body, isolated him from all warmth and love.

“Tell me where the piebald man is staying.  The room number.”  He produced his sad little sign-in tablet from beneath an accumulation of phone books.  Freezing now, he pointed to a name.  I allowed light, then.

I climbed the carpeted staircase to the second floor.  Someone was grunting loudly in short, agonizing rhythmic spurts.  I kicked open the offender’s door.  He was a bulging, overly-muscled man doing squat thrusts.  He failed to notice me.  I continued down the hall.

I tapped on 121.  Where there had been the light sound of movement within, I now heard nothing but a ghostly sibilance.  Then, the sound of a supernal wind.  He was gone.

He had left the taut short swim trunks, wet and sandy, on the unmade bed and a greeting card depicting a cartoon turkey.  “HAPPY THANKSGIVING” it said inside, though it was July.  He had left it unsigned.

I have not been back to the beach since.

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