The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Chapter 13

David proudly displayed her Mollines painting in her new frame, nicked from The Club Level at The Ritz.

"I can't believe you got away with that," Art said, astonished.

"Really?" David said. "After all we've been through?"

"Okay, yes, I can totally believe it, but it's still incredible."

David examined the painting on the wall, moved it a micrometer up and down until she was satisfied. "It is, isn't it?"

"Not the painting, you. You're incredible, do you know that?"

David shrugged. "You're not so bad yourself," she said.

Art scoffed.

"I'm serious," said David. "You're nothing like the man I met a week ago."

"Because of you."

"No," she shook her head. "Because of you. You've always had it in you. I just gave you permission to let it out. You were brilliant at the hotel. Like you really were my agent. You hold your own, Arthur Stagmire. You are not a product of my doing."

"I appreciate what you're saying, but I don't necessarily buy it," Art argued.

"Remember, though, you're the one who got us the free dinner," David remarked.

"That's true," admitted Art. "But I couldn't get us a suite for the night."

"Next time."

"Next time," Art agreed.

"For now, how about a drink?" suggested David. "I'll pour you a gin and soda. We can put on a show and pretend we're in the suite."

Art looked around at his apartment. "It's long shot, but I will take a drink, thank you, ma'am."

"Ma'am? Hardly," sneered David. She had removed her trousers and boots, and walked about in her white oxford and hot pants.

Art gestured to her. "Looks like a ma'am to me."

David smirked. "Still hung up on that, eh? I prefer to think of my gender as fluid, so don't get stuck on it."

She walked into the kitchen and messed about in the cabinets and refrigerator, and emerged with two tumblers filled with ice and liquor. She set them both on the coffee table and took her usual perch on the end of the sofa, slinging her legs over the upholstered arm, swinging her feet like a child.

Art fell down beside her and flipped on an old black and white movie. He brought the gin to his lips and the room melted away. The tired sofa, worn hardwood floor and whitewashed drywall were replaced with brocade upholstered sofa with golden tassels, plush ivory carpeting and warm walls dressed in rich draperies, mahogany tables with gold leaf embellishments, a suite at the Ritz.

David sat next to him on the lush bed, her silk pearlescent kimono draped over her body like a spider web, her long, ivory legs crossed like chopsticks. She watched the movie, then watched Art watching her. He wanted to touch her. He held out his fingertips toward her exposed porcelain shoulder, but dared not touch her flesh lest he be expelled from this universe and thrown back to earth. She returned her attention to the screen, and so did he, with a wandering eye that kept locked on David. He let the gin seep into his veins, and felt the warmth in his brain from the liquid swim through his subconscious.

***

Art awoke hours later, still buzzed, and looked at the clock. It was after 3 a.m. and his bladder was on the edge of bursting. He tossed around the idea of staying in his comfortable bed and just letting the liquid run out of him onto the floor, but knew that was a bad choice. He also knew he couldn't hold it any longer. He rolled to the edge of the bed and let his feet dangle over until his toes touched the floor. It took an extreme effort, but he managed to sit up and stay that way for the minute it took to get his bearings. He walked to the bathroom and relieved himself for what seemed like days. He felt a headache in the future and swallowed two pain relievers to change his fate. He was about to head back to bed, but a noise from the living room caught his attention. It was a little noise, like a kitten scratching at a closed door.

David sat at the kitchen table, her back to Art. She did not hear him come near, and he didn't think he wanted her to. She was scratching the table. No she wasn't. She was writing something. The scratching was the sound her pencil made on the notebook she had in front of her. Art tried to approach slowly, quietly, but close enough to see what she was writing. Was it song lyrics to a new posthumous album?

David set down the pencil and began to pick at her fingernails. Art strained to see the words on the paper, but they weren't words at all. He couldn't make it out, but it looked like scribbles or symbols. Not quite symbols. Not another alphabet like Russian Cyrillic characters or Japanese kanji. Holy shit, was that Arabic? Oh my god, thought Art, she's a terrorist! His heart raced. He broke into a sweat. He froze. He thought about calling 911, but was too afraid to move lest she hear him, see him seeing her, and strap a bomb on him. Before he could contemplate his next move, he watched in horror as David, still picking at her nails, took a hold of the nail on her middle finger, twisting it slightly, then peeled it entirely away from her skin. Art's stomach erupted. There was no covering the sound of his retching on the rug.

David jumped and turned abruptly. When she saw what had happened, she rushed to Art's side. "Oh my, Art, are you okay?" she said gently. She frowned at the mess on the ground and steered him away.

"David, what..." Art started.

"Don't look at the carpet," said David. "Let's get you to the toilet." Art did not struggle as much as he would have liked. He rinsed his mouth and assured David he felt better. She tucked him back into bed. "You lie down, Art. You'll feel much better in the morning." She pulled the blanket up to his chin and patted him kindly. Art lay paralyzed. He could not comprehend what had happened in this mental haze. Oh god, why had he drunk so much damn gin? David continued to talk to him, soothe him with words he couldn't understand. Was she speaking another language? He couldn't tell. He was drifting against his wishes. Blackness.

Bowie, David. "Breaking Glass." Lyrics. Low. RCA Records, 1977.