In progress

He felt like a malevolent disembodied apparition, as he waited outside her home. He felt for his .45.   A reflex, as he tried to remember how long he had carried a weapon.  There was of course his public school. It  was probably in his teens. Algiers maybe working the black market smoking opium, living on cigarettes unreasonably strong tea, and tourist women.  The tea was   more addictive, than the opium. He was a Kaffir; the protection was needed as it was in the Bowery. Now it was   part of getting dressed. 10 round clip, which he didn’t need tonight.
She challenged him at every turn  “I don’t think you’re strong enough to accept to accept my love.”  She taunted.
He pointed at the scar on his throat, his mind going back to that, night, in Hunts point South Bronx The fight, Cass helping him into her car driving like an Algerian taxi driver, while cooing sweet things to him. Shirt pressed to throat. Finally Saint Vincent’s hospital Sister of charity running toward him, then it going black.
He answered by saying I have seen “Helicopters a blaze, my love coughing Technicolor blood in her last moments I travelled around thee world, around the block and back again. I have rarely seen anything more beautiful, than you.”
She just held him, not saying a word shaking a little at first, and then just pressing as to melt with him.
Mumbling something incomprehensible before kissing him. Next she casually invited him to her house for the night. Somehow through coincidence, Happenstance, and random chance. He is now sitting outside her house at 3 AM smoking a cigarette trying decide to call, and see if she wants company. “I crave she says in a manner, that is carnal, with no pretence if she’s in the mood.  The other possibility Start the bike hope the Ducati’s growls went unnoticed, and go to his flat, which is smiling like a flock of beauty  pageant contestants, but secretly sad, and blue.