Veronica and I’s bed speaks in an accent as well. Its voice is low and breathy and close to the ear. Its not quite French, and not Russian either, but somewhere in between. Our bed hangs from the ceiling on delicate cables, like a swing, and it has the accent of a foreign spy.
She is very compelling, “You have tired, no? Come to me, rest your head on my pillows. They are very soft. If you are sore muscles, I think you will feel better laying against me. Just for a moment. Come…”
Then its seems the rest world is very far away, and the urgency of the day has gone soft. And your limbs are so very heavy, and your eyes are fighting to stay open, but fighting weakly. Your glass slips from your fingers, its remaining contents spilling at your feet. And it seems, you recall vaguely, that your drink tasted a little strange, more bitter than it should have. Is it possible something was added to it?
The thought should strike an alarm, telling you to run, telling you its a trap, that you have been set up. But you are swinging gently, or swimming, and “drugged” is only a gently passing last thought. And you fall… But don’t worry she will catch you. She always catches you and she does not lie. She is soft, so very soft.
But I digress. Gisela, nor her bra, have ever met our bed.
Gisela is not from Paris or Russia, and to my knowledge she is not a spy. She is from somewhere else, South America somewhere, Argentina perhaps? Could have been Chile. I’m going to say Argentina, and you can imagine her wearing that bra under a tango dress… You’re right, it doesn’t work, the straps show. No dress then.