Within the confines of her sanctuary, her tocador, Senorita Ramirez prepared for the ritual. She inspected her nails. Gross. She made a mental note to self, phone Jean-Paul, as soon as possible. Pamper session required.
The exotic bathrobe dropped to the floor. Lavender-scented steam rose up to greet her. She lowered her ample proportions into the claw foot bath tub. She inhaled… long and deep.
The radio was tuned to her favourite station. A solo voice filled the silences, tried to compete with the thoughts that clamoured in her head.
As she reclined in the tub, her gaze wondered to the robe. She inspected the strong design on the thick velvet pile.
Its sculpted shape boasted swirling patterns, bold and vivid splashes in black and red, curling round and round in endless spirals, without beginning or ending.
Round and round. On and on.
No beginning, no ending.
A wry smile settled on her lips.
That just about summed up her lifestyle.
Like the circles that you find, in the windmills of your mind. The song lingered on her memory.
Red splashes. Vivid. Bold. They mocked her. Echoed the red stains, a product of the previous night's encounter.
Red wine stains, discordant against the off-white tone of a woollen flokati rug, scattered on the tropical hardwood parquet floor.
They had had such a great evening…
She smiled. The memory lingered on her lips.
Red lips. Ruby red. Ah, how he loved that particular shade of red. Didn't they all?
The soprano held a long, plaintive note…
Red blood on the chaise longue. A thin, miserable trickle, slow and unhurried, from the tiniest orifice… almost indiscernible.
She smiled. It was all in a day's work.
Came with the territory.
The tricks of the trade.
The music swelled. A heart-warming crescendo.
The soapy water caressed her skin.
Her eyelids felt heavy. They fluttered, then closed.
She had not a care in the world. Mission accomplished.
Que sera sera…
Check out the Bluebell Short Story Slam prompt at: http://bluebellbooks.blogspot.com/2011/11/short-story-slam-week-14.html