Mona from 203 comes barefoot into Howie’s kitchen, her essence preceding her in the draft of the open apartment door. She is tall, attractive and twenty-five years old. Her short black hair is in casual disarray, but her make up is carefully applied. She’s wearing a short black silk robe trimmed in red and tied with a red sash at her waist. Her business cards say she’s an Interior Designer/Color Consultant. She says she works out of her apartment.
Mona was often seen in the halls of the building wearing less than outdoor clothes. If you asked her why, she’d just say she was from a large family, then shrug, as if that explained things.
Howie, the red-nosed, fifty-something apartment manager, is pouring his fourth beer into a mug. He gets up from the table. “Hi Mona, can I get you a beer?”
“No, beer makes me fart,” she giggles. “Got something stronger?”
Mona has no sense of personal space. She approaches within inches of Howie’s face, her scarlet lips parted in a moist toothy smile, her black liquid eyes locked on his. Howie takes a step back. His eyes fall to the line and shadow of her cleavage, then to the gentle flow of black silk covering her breasts. He swallows audibly.
“Sure, have a seat in the living room. I’ll get ya something.”
As she walks away the rolling motion of her buttocks starts Sunshine of Your Love playing in Howie’s head. He drains his beer in three gulps, then takes a bottle of bourbon and two glasses from the cupboard.
Mona is sitting on the couch. Howie sits across from her in a butt-sprung armchair with a cracked rear leg. He leans forward to pour the drinks. Mona crosses her legs, and her robe slides off her knee. Howie clears his throat and tries to sound casual. “So Mona, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“My bathtub faucet won’t shut off all the way. It drips and that’s annoying. ”
“Probably needs a washer. I’ll take care of it. ”
Mona leans in to pick up her drink. Again her robe rearranges itself. When she sits back again, one shoulder is exposed, and Howie sees the nipple of her left breast. It is just barely visible so long as he stays on the edge of his chair. He leans back to avoid being conspicuous. But from there he catches a glimpse of downy black pubic hair at the intersection of her crossed thighs. Meanwhile Mona sips her drink and chatters as she always does about how strange some of the other tenants are.
Reeling in the warmth of the bourbon on top of four beers, Howie hardly hears a word. He can’t help stealing glances at Mona’s thighs. With mounting anxiety over his growing erection, he tries distracting himself by looking out the window where a bus is bouncing over potholes on College Avenue. He brings his glass to his lips and is surprised to find it empty. He slides to the edge of his chair, leaning forward to pour another drink. Mona leans in, smiling, glass in hand. Both breasts now in plain view.
Howie pours the drinks and sits back quickly—too quickly for the damaged chair. The rear legs snap with a loud crack. He falls on his back, legs in the air, and loses consciousness as his head bounces on the hardwood floor. Mona explodes into convulsive laughter, writhing on the couch, blinded by hysterical tears, until she notices that Howie hasn’t moved for several minutes.
Howie wakes up with a pounding headache. Mona is wiping his face with the cool washcloth. He notices tears on Mona’s face. He touches her cheek. “Mona, you’re crying.”
Mona’s giggling laughter bubbles up again. She rocks back and forth on her knees, laughing till she’s exhausted. She struggles to her feet, still giggling, and stumbles out the door.
E J Barron
E J Barron 