Waiting

She looks at the front door. No buzzer. No chain. No spyhole.

She returns to the table, sits, and pours herself another cup of coffee. She leans forward and rests her elbows on the rough surface, resting her head on one hand. Her breasts lie flat against the table, she can feel the flowery pattern underneath them, her hair is a riot about her shoulders, strands of it reaching the table. She shifts her shoulders and feels the netted twine slip against the tender skin under her breasts, brushing her nipples.

She drifts aimlessly about the room at a loss. She goes again to the windows facing the city. She unlatches the slider and pulls it open. Heavy hot air pours over her. She steps out onto the deck. The tiles are hot under her feet. There are a couple white deck chairs and a white circular table, blinding in the sun.

She leans back against the glass, hugging the side. How nice is the sight of her ass, flattened against the window.

She glances to the right and left, she can just see the end balconies of the neighboring apartment buildings, not their sides or windows. All is deserted in the heat. Sweat starts on her forehead and neck and under her arms. Her shoulder, where her hand hooks it is slick, as are her breasts where her arm presses them, hiding them from what?

She goes hesitantly to the railing, and looks down. Way below her is a road that edges between the buildings and the flat expanse of mud. Cars whip along it. Large rocks are piled beyond it to keep the encroaching mud at bay. Huge piles of rubbish cover the rocks, stretching out over the slime. The apartment dumpsters don't have far to go to be emptied. Through the trash, some clambering over the rocks, some knee deep in the muck, figures are moving, bending, picking, filling black trash bags. She tries to imagine being down there, bending in the heat with no chance of rest or cool air ever.

A taxi pulls up to the curb below, a foreshortened European man climbs out, her face lifts with hope. He helps a woman out of the car. There is the faint slam of the door. Hope drains and she looks away despondently.

She looks toward the city. She watches another plane dropping to the hight of the office towers, it's shadow speeding, warping like a fever over the shining flats. Out here she can just faintly hear the scream of its engines.

The heat is a suffocating blanket. She steps back inside the apartment. She shivers in comfort.

She moves about. In one glass cabinet there is a lone glass stoppered carafe of red wine. There is no food in the kitchen save for the spartan fare in the refrigerator. The freezer is empty save for ice cubes. The cabinets hold no spices, no sauces, no flour, no cereal, no cans, only glasses and dishes. There are no cleaning supplies under the sink, just an immaculately clean trash can.

The bathroom drawers are empty save for several rolls of toilet paper. She looks at herself in the mirror thoughtfully, eying her cunt.

All the drawers in the study, in the bedrooms are empty.

She goes back into the living room and sits on the couch, waiting, hands on knees. At some point she realizes she is hungry again. She looks out on the deck. The shadows of the railing on the tile are much smaller and the sun is high, near the top of the window. She slides the window open. The heat washes over her. She cannot step on the tiles they are so hot. She closes the window and stands, looking out.

Again she sets the table for two, pouring two glasses of wine and a large water which she sets at her place. She goes back to the window and stands watching the shadows. When they have all but vanished, she heats the curry and rice in the microwave, serves herself, sits and eats. When done she leans back and eyes the empty chair. She dips her finger in her wine and lets it dribble over each of her breasts. She bends her head, chin to collar bone. She cups first her left breast then her right and licks off the red beads. The wine is otherwise untouched.

Later she sleeps stretched on the sofa.

She is awakened by a flash of light and a muffled crack of thunder. Rain is pouring down in torrents. She stands by the window watching. When there is a jagged reaching knife of light, the city buildings flash into view, otherwise all she can see is a chaos of lashing rain.

The storm lasts but half an hour, followed by a few moments of strange steaming yellow light, then the full glare of the sun returns.

Later she eats the salad on the deck. The sun has fallen behind the building. The heat is still ferocious but she relishes the change. There are still several hot puddles of rain water on the tile, she taps her foot in one, sending up little splashes.

Again there is an empty place setting with a glass of wine for company. She eats slowly, sweat beading on her shoulders, under her breasts, on her thighs, on her lips. Her bottom is slick on the plastic. She leaves the wine all but untouched, drinking her glass of water.

She takes a long shower. When she emerges darkness has fallen. She goes to the windows. There are no curtains. She stands looking at the apartment building across the way. Its windows are lit, people move about, some obscured by curtains, some not. The leaves of the plants on a stand brush her, tickling her waist.

She stands in the dark for a time, looking at the silent life across the way, gazing at the city. She sits on the couch, staring at her knees, pale white in the darkness. She nods, eyes closing.

She slips into bed and after staring at the ceiling for some time drops off to sleep.

She wakes moaning to horrible cramps. She rolls out of bed, sweating and disoriented. She stumbles more by luck than anything into the bathroom and just barely has time to throw her face over the hidden pool of the toilet, clasping the cold porcelain. Vomit rises painfully, convulsively up her throat, out her mouth.

She gets up, trembling, and rinses her mouth. She starts back for the bed then dives for the toilet once more.

She feels so sick and miserable and alone and helpless.

It is measureless time before she stumbles back into the bedroom. She barely has strength to pull the covers over herself. Morning light is already tinting the distant city buildings.

The unmerciful sun, pouring in through the windows, wakes her. She groans and stumbles into the living room and sprawls on the couch. The sun is there too.

There is a click from the door. She jumps up forcing a smile through her headache, "David!"

Two women come in pulling a cart that holds brooms, mops and a vacuum cleaner. They are dressed in jeans, t-shirts and cheap running shoes.

She stares at them dumbfounded, one hand goes over her breasts, vainly trying to hide them, the other drops between her legs.

The women are clearly expecting her. They call out "No English" and titter to each other as they get busy. One takes a spray bottle and begins misting the plants, wiping them with one cloth, watering them, then dusting the dolls and any hard furniture surfaces with another cloth. The other woman opens the sliding doors to the deck and begins sweeping.

The girl moves quickly, bent, into the bedroom. She shuts the door and slips under the covers. She can still hear them chattering. After a time there is the roar of the vacuum in the hall and then in the next room.

One of the women opens the door and comes in. She says "Jump" in a peremptory tone. The other follows her and laughs, "No no! Out!" she jerks her thumb toward the hall.

The girl hurries out and huddles on the couch, legs together, a miserable expression on her face.

After a time, one of the women calls from the kitchen, "Run!". The other appears, "No! Come! Come!"

She looks at them. They are pointing at the kitchen counter. She looks at them with confusion. "Come! Come!" they both call. She stands hesitantly. One of them pats the counter. "Fly!" The other laughs and gives her friend a push. "Up!" They both grin and call "Come, Up!"

She shakes her head and backs toward the windows. With an exasperated sound one of the women goes to the cart and takes a gun. The girl turns to run. There is a pop and she feels something sting her bottom. She twists and looks at her rump. There is a dart sticking in her flesh, she reaches back for it and then collapses.

The cleaning women get on either side of her and lift. She staggers woozily between them. At the counter they turn her. One says "Run," the other shakes her head and says "up". They easily lift her onto the granite top. They twist and roll her so that her legs are stretched lengthwise on the counter, her feet against the refrigerator. Her head dangles over the sink. It lolls back, as flexible as a baby's, she stares dumbly at her reflection in the stainless steel of the sink's other side.

One woman busies herself about her head. The water is turned on. She feels it rising up her forehead, lifting her hair. Strong fingers rub her hair getting it completely soaked. Her head is lifted and an overturned pot is slipped under it. Her head is plunked roughly upon the pot. Rich minty smelling shampoo is squirted, its aroma fills her nose. Some slips into her eyes and stings distantly. Her view of the ceiling is marred by the tears.

The other woman sets a crock-pot on the counter between the girl's thighs, she spreads the girl's legs so that one knee sprawls over space. She plugs the pot in, letting the cord lay over the girl's shin. She takes a pair of scissors and quickly snips the girl's pubic hair, then she busies herself rubbing lotion up and down the girl's legs, up over her thighs and between. With quick calloused fingers she coats the girl's cunt, pushing the lotion in between its lips. Though her thighs sprawl wide, those lips remain closed, it's like forcing medicine into the mouth of a reluctant child.

The woman dips her fingers into the crock-pot and comes up with a daub of viscous wax, gleaming like honey. She spreads it on one of the girl's labia. She presses a small white square of muslin onto the wax, counts, then pulls up with a quick snap.

The girl jerks clumsily, making an incomprehensible complaining groan which just serves to get soapy water in her mouth. Her hair is being rinsed with the dish sprayer.

The woman works efficiently dealing first with the girl's crotch then down her thighs while the girl shifts and complains. Finally the woman applies the wax to the girl's underarms. When this wax is ripped off the girl bounces and cries. Something more like consciousness is yanked into her gaze. She waves with her arms and tries to sit.

"Duck" says one woman, the other shakes shakes her head and says, "No! Down!" They push her back. She droops, still confused and weak. One woman continues rinsing her hair, the other quickly trims the girl's nails then coats them with a clear polish, they shine in their natural dark pink. Her lips are done a shade just slightly redder than her pale skin. Lastly the woman takes a second lipstick, transparent and applies it to the girl's nipples and lower lips. How they shine!

"Up" they say and pull her into a sitting position, her legs dangle, the hard edge of the counter cutting into the back of her thighs. She wobbles but manages to stay up. Her hair is streaming about her shoulders. Little droplets of water stand on her skin. Her mouth is open, a little drool gathers at its corners. Her eyes watch the women. One rinses and wipes the sink leaving it gleaming, the other wipes the counter beside the girl. They hurry about, packing their gear, talking happily to each other. The door opens, they trundle their cart through it and are gone.

After a time she becomes aware that her hair, shoulders and chest are wet and cold and that the counter is digging into her thighs. She pushes herself off, staggers, then stands upright.

She stretches, lifting her arms up, raising her breasts. She looks down at her softly shining nipples, at her oh so smooth legs, she lowers her hands and feels her silky sex, so tender. She relaxes and smiles, wetting her lips. She looks at the door, "Soon," she whispers, "He must be coming soon." The listening silence of the apartment makes her shiver.

The day passes in a haze. By dinner she feels well enough to heat some curry. After eating she showers and collapses in bed. For a time she stares at the city. The setting sun lights the buildings briefly, then as it fades their own lights begin to appear.

The sun rises suddenly behind the city. One moment there is just dull dusky glow, the next the wall above the bed is bright. A moment later the headboard gets it, it's dark wood gleams. On its shelf a dozen dolls sit, suddenly alert in the glare. Yet another moment later and the sun is worming it's persistent fingers through her hair, into her eyes.

She groans and rolls over, pulling at the covers. How you long to slip in beside her, see her eyes flash with gladness at greeting her long awaited lover or jump with horror at the sight of a stranger. You care not which. You long to grip her waist, too eager to pause for foreplay even if she's willing, and climb upon her, struggling or eager, and lodge yourself within her.

She sighs and sits and shaking her hair stretching stretching her arms up, raising those breasts as well. The sheets puddle about her thighs. In the shower she gleams and turns, rubbing her sex perhaps more than is needed, but certainly not enough to please you.

In the kitchen there is bran cereal left by the cleaning ladies the day before. She has a bowl of this and yogurt. She looks at the table but eats standing.

The coffee on its timer is freshly made. She pours a cup then goes and sits on the balcony, feeling the sun on her skin. She sits until she starts to feel too hot, then slips back in.

She stands looking at the front door. You wish with her that someone would come, unlike her, you don't care who. Any man would suit you.

Through that door she hears the two cleaning ladies talking loudly to each other. There is no surprise when they come in. She sits on the couch, exposed, discouraged, while they restock the refrigerator, clean, water the plants, and finally beckon her into the kitchen.

She climbs docilely onto the counter. One of them shampoos her hair while the other goes over her skin, using tweezers to pluck the individual hairs missed the day before. The pricks are slight, the woman's fingers rough, invasive and uninterested.

After they have gone she drifts about the apartment, lifting dolls and looking at them, then setting them back.

You are growing tired of her. You wish that at least she would lie spread on the couch, fingering herself, spreading those lips whose contents are so annoyingly hidden. It would pass the time for her, you think encouragingly.

She sits on one of the armchairs, possibly for novelty, and stretches, entirely without self consciousness now. She frowns and twists and lifts the cushion. There hides a thin gray Dell laptop, it's powercord a twisted jumble beside it.

She opens the lid and it dings it's little TA-DA riff and flashes a quick Resuming message before showing a logon dialog. There is just one user. Zenia. She stares, her legs start to shake, her calves jiggling. She dashes across the apartment, through the arch and into the bathroom. She is wrackingly sick.

After a time she stands, takes the cup from the sink and rinses her mouth and spits. She looks at herself in the mirror. What is more desirable than a pale, wide-eyed, wild haired girl looking at herself in a bathroom mirror?

She goes back and lays the computer on her lap. It's underside has just started to warm.

She clicks on Zenia and looks at the password prompt. Carefully she types 'd' 'a' 'v' 'i' 'd'. It complains about the password's incorrectness and she relaxes a bit. She is about to give up, leaving the computer a locked enigma. She changes the 'l' for a '1' and finds herself looking the desktop.

The wallpaper is a photo of the oh so blue eyes, forehead, and rangy blonde hair of a beautiful woman peering coyly around an ornate doorjam. Beyond and dreamily out of focus is a bedroom dominated by a gauzy canopy bed.

She stares at the image. Her lips are open, her tongue visible, she is breathing hard.

In the top left hand corner of the desktop, obscuring one of the whorls of the doorway, is a folder icon, "My Pictures". Just below is a document, "fucked.doc".

She opens "My Pictures" and is presented with a myriad of thumbnails and folders. The thumbnails are all of the blonde woman, so slim, so beautiful.

There she is sitting, legs crossed, on a ornate bedroom chair, wearing just a slip of a wine colored thing, applying lipstick to her soft lips, a high heeled sandal tips one foot way forward, the other is dangling in the air.

There she is standing in front of a row of gleaming white urinals, wearing a fishnet bodystocking, it may hide as much in total as the slip, but it reveals so much more.

There she is pulling the body stocking up over her breasts

There is the close-up of a tender little breast, a finger adjusting the net so its string does not press roughly on the delicate nipple. The netting fits around the nipple like a tiny frame.

She opens one of the girl standing on a balcony. The resolution is very high. It is like being on the balcony beside her.

She closes the folder of photos. She opens the document.

There in large fonted letters is "Please call the American Embassy. I am being held captive in 2614. Reward!" The last word flashes.

She pages down and reads, "Shit, it did not work. I left the laptop lid open in front of 2613. I rang their buzzer and ducked back in here. I waited. When I opened the door, the fucking thing was like lying just outside this door, closed."

"I tried 2615. The same. Do they not understand? Maybe all these apartments are like taken by David's company. I do not know what to do."

"I have been here two weeks. I think that's right. There's no way to keep track. Why hasn't he come? Why is he doing this to me?"

"Time passes so slowly."

"I thought it was just like the games we play. He like calls my cell and tells me to wait in his study, stretched on the couch wearing just these black high heels. He'll walk in and I'll want to like jump him and wrap my legs around him and have him fuck me against the wall. I always control myself though, and lie waiting, maybe just shifting my legs a bit, David likes to take the lead.

"This was gonna be no different, except, well, we were going to have a week all to ourselves with great beaches and casinos and no work. I arrived first and waited for him like he wanted. Except I'm not like stupid, I hid my passport and some clothes and money and my Visa card in the closet. What did it matter? He'd find me waiting just the same."

"Those cleaning bitches, when they came that first morning, me thinking it was David too when the door opened! They were so damned thorough, the apartment was like spotless to begin with, why did they have to vacuum the closet? I started yelling, saying the stuff was mine. Tried to grab my passport from them. Got a dart in my ass."

"It's only luck this laptop survived. I was lieing on the couch playing solitaire when I heard the door. I slapped the lid down and slid it under the cushion and then jumped up ready to greet David."

"When they left, I found they'd like taken the sheets off the bed and the towels were all gone. Bitches."

"I am way scared. It's all too easy to imagine what can happen to young white women out here."

"This morning I waited by the front door. When the cleaning bitches came, I slammed a chair on one and tackled the other. I got another tranquilizer dart in my ass."

"What I am going to do is, when the sun is low, like early evening near as I can figure, I am going to leave, naked as I am. I am going to run down the stairs, no being trapped in the elevator for me, I am going to run into the street, calling for help."