Desire High Heels Red Wine by Sky Gilbert

By Sky Gilbert

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I knew that, but why hadn't I thought of it before? My mouth dried up. I peered around the door-jamb. Bill looked pasty under the fluorescent lights. He was so inert he seemed more waxwork than human. Jimmy Scott sang in the other room, with a high-pitched and grandmotherly voice. I reached in and shut the door on Bill. I didn't need to look at him. I knew he was there. I didn't want to be reminded. I hurried to the bedroom and turned on the lights. Bill definitely was not a pack rat. There was a bed, a dresser, a side table and a lamp.

A few had been photographed in this room. Others had been captured in offices, restaurants, street corners and building entrances. Where was I? My eye caught on a piece of blue, the colour of these walls. Another boy. My eyes searched but came back to the picture. It was me; me with that fucking full-of-myself grin. I reached for it but stopped. A few inches away a picture of my childhood friend Claire peeked from underneath two men. I hadn't spoken to her in a couple of years and this seemed to be the period from when the picture was taken.

It even bored me a bit. I wondered if there was a CD I could put on. Something cool; something very alto saxophone. I stood again; gulped the Livet. I started liking Bill by looking at his collection. He owned discs by Bill Evans, Coleman Hawkins and Randy Weston; Blossom Dearie, Billy Eckstine and Sarah Vaughan. But he'd bought a good variety of other artists as well: The Kronos Quartet, David Danovich, Ute Lemper, and everything I'd ever seen by John Corigliano and John Adams. I thought it strange that the other rooms didn't reflect his personality as this one did.

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