#1 ASPHALT QUEEN

_{Photo by Dmitry Ratushny on Unsplash.}

I was told to tell my story. I am not a writer or a poet. I am not even a proper speaker of the English language yet I have to tell a story; what a laugh! But you won't be laughing when I am done, will you? No my darlings, you won't.

Let me set the scene for you. You know a proper story needs a scene so you can picture the plot play like a movie in your head.

The night was cold. It had just finished raining. The asphalt glittered under the yellow street light like stars in a false sky. You could hear excited frogs competing with bored crickets in the silence of the road. Cars flew passed as men rushed to their wives, to a semblance of a life, to the broken silence of their empty beds.

We strutted out like models, our clothes sculpted on our bodies like water, our hips swinging like our pelvis were made of sin, for sin, for lust, for the fantasies of the patriarchy. Our high heels clicked clacked on the sidewalk and the mutter of muffled music swept between us, soothing, calming, sweetening us like sacrifices, like flesh, soft bones and skins hanging from smoke filled rafters, waiting for the hunter's lips to kiss his hands in prayer over us before dining.

Some of us had jackets but most of us had bare arms to the cold, goose pimples creeping between turgid hair follicles as the cold ate into our hearts and froze our souls, made us hard and bright like the asphalt from whence we had come.

I do not know if the scene is properly set, I am not an artist, this canvass is a piece of tissue; I am not an actress, this stage is a small space, on a forgotten road, where forgotten people go to die but then again I digress. I have set my scene as best as I can, take it all leave it. I had warned you before.

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My rent was due. You see, I paid every week to keep a tiny room in the motel that I called home. It was home but it was also my office, my prison, my set, my hell. Every girl paid for a space to get fucked by life and everything else. I can see you wrinkle your nose in distaste but I am not here to make you feel good, sing kumbaya, hold your hands and tell you that the world is a beautiful place. I will leave that job to those who are convincing at painting such pictures. I do not have the heart to lie to you and I rather relish telling these kinds of truths.

I was desperate for money. Besides my rent, I needed to send money to my mom for her medicines as well as school fees for my baby, the love of my life, the reason why I still breathe, my son. So I was ready for anything. The month ended the next day and the world has no sympathy for people like me.

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She came first, the banker lady that did girls. Her car lights winked at me. I thought to turn away like I had not seen it but I thought about the 10k that was probably chilling in her purse, waiting for me. I sighed and crossed the road to where she had packed. She wound down, looked at me and smiled. She didn't want to come in, she wanted to go to an exclusive hotel on the rich part of town. There would be chicken, Hennessy and lots of weed. I was game. I got into the car and we sped off.

_{Photo by Daniil Kuželev on Unsplash.}

The hotel was as advertised. There was food, lots of it; there was liquor, the expensive kind not the fake bottles on the street, the real deal and there was enough kush to keep a community high for two weeks. It was paradise. I ate, I drank, I smoked, I danced. It was paradise.

After several hours, sweat steaming off our skins like we were in a sauna, I and the banker lady retired to her room. Sorry, I forgot to tell you that we met other people there, women and men. It was a party you see, for some club, the banker woman belonged to. So while the others dripped and slavered on the rug, she and I headed to her own room.

She had a suite to herself. It seemed I had misjudged her worth. She dropped off her skirt and suit and entered the bathroom cradling her purse. I went to the phone and ordered for water. My tongue was thick and my lips were dry; weed will do that to you. While I waited, I rolled a joint from the bunch I had pinched as we left the party. I lit it, dragged the sweet smoke into my lungs then I fell on the bed and watched the ceiling spin. I passed out like a flicked matchstick.

I woke up to a persistent knock on the door. I struggled up, the room was dark. I scrambled to the door and opened it. It was my water. I took it and thanked the young man. I opened the cap and gurgled the water like I had just escaped the Sahara.

After I had fed my thirst, I wandered through the suite bit I could not find the banker lady. I guessed she had gone back to the party when she saw that I was asleep. I sighed and decided to have a bath. I took off my clothes and walked to the bathroom. I twisted the handle and the door opened. I entered and on the white tile floor was my banker lady, her limbs splayed like broken match sticks, skirt raised to her hips, her belt wrapped tight around her left arm. I saw the syringe, the empty vial and the fleck of spit on her pale lips. Her face was peaceful. A scream filled the bathroom, an animal cry of fear. From somewhere within me, I knew I was the one screaming.

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I have to go. My lips are parched and I want to rest. This story telling thing is beyond me. I will continue some other day. I have to go.

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©warpedpoetic, 2018.

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