Read Online Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart by Caitlin R. Kiernan - Free Book Online
Authors: Caitlin R. Kiernan
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you be so sure?” she asks, pressing her luck again. And there, she thinks, that’s my true perversity, and the collector of bones savors the uncertainty, the slightest possibility he’ll turn tail and head back to the elevator, back down to the slushy sidewalk and someone who won’t ask for anything more than a twenty-dollar blow job.
“Just a hunch,” the boy replies, trying hard to smirk back at her, but not quite pulling it off. “I get hunches. My grandmother used to tell me I was psychic like that.”
“Did she?” asks the collector of bones. “Did she, indeed?” and the boy nods his head and finishes the brandy in a single gulp, wincing slightly ;it the way the liquor burns his throat.
“Sometimes my dreams come true,” he says, handing her his empty glass, and when she offers him another, he says sure, why not.
“Here I pay for a common streetwalker, and I get a bona-fide clairvoyant. That’s got to be some sort of bargain. Maybe I should start playing the lottery.”
The boy sniffs and wipes his nose again, glancing around the apartment while she pours him more of the cheap brandy. “Doesn’t much look like you’re the sort who needs to,” he says. do all right,” she tells him, handing the glass back to the boy. “But you won’t ask at what, because that’s none of your business, and I wouldn’t tell you, anyway.”
“I’d guess you married well, and the fucker died and left you everything. If I were to guess, but since it’s none of my business, I won’t.”
The collector of bones screws the cap back onto the brandy bottle and sets it aside. “Don’t go and get so drunk you’ll be useless,” she warns him.
The boy shrugs his shoulders, and he says, “Oh, I can hold my own.” So she laughs at him again, and this time he makes a face like she really has hurt his feelings. “Never mind,” the collector of bones tells the boy, and then she asks him to get undressed, and she slips out of her skirt and blouse and stockings while he watches. She gives him a condom, and then they spend half an hour fucking on the sofa, and she comes twice, which is better than usual. Most times,she doesn’t come at all, though she’s never yet blamed any of the whores for her own limitations. Afterwards, he asks for another drink, and this time she gives him the bottle, what’s left of the bottle, and tells him to finish it.
They sit naked together on the sofa, him drinking brandy and her watching him getting drunk, and it isn’t long before he asks why she offered him three times what he usually gets just to fuck.
“You’re not done quite yet,” she replies, and then she stands and walks across the room to the bookshelf, and she pretends that he’s watching her because he likes what he sees and not because he’s wondering what comes next. She opens a small box carved from sandalwood—something she bought on a business trip to Indonesia half a lifetime ago. Inside is a key strung on a faded length of silk ribbon the color of cranberries. She takes it out and closes the box again, and then the collector of bones turns back to the boy and holds the key up so it catches the dim light and she’s certain that he can see it.
“What’s that?” he asks, slurring just a little now, “It’s a key,” she says unhelpfully.
“I can see it’s a goddamn key,” he mutters and starts picking at the foil label on the brandy bottle. “What I’m asking is what it’s a key to? ”
“The key to the reason I’m paying you so 11111(11,” and then she says for him to follow her, not to bother with his clothes, just follow her. The boy sighs and shakes his head, but he does as he’s told. Money talks, and the flesh listens. She leads him down a short hall to a door that looks in no way different from any of the other doors in the apartment, except, of course, that she’s made sure he knows that it’s the door that fits the key from the little box, And that makes it the sort of door to be
“Just a hunch,” the boy replies, trying hard to smirk back at her, but not quite pulling it off. “I get hunches. My grandmother used to tell me I was psychic like that.”
“Did she?” asks the collector of bones. “Did she, indeed?” and the boy nods his head and finishes the brandy in a single gulp, wincing slightly ;it the way the liquor burns his throat.
“Sometimes my dreams come true,” he says, handing her his empty glass, and when she offers him another, he says sure, why not.
“Here I pay for a common streetwalker, and I get a bona-fide clairvoyant. That’s got to be some sort of bargain. Maybe I should start playing the lottery.”
The boy sniffs and wipes his nose again, glancing around the apartment while she pours him more of the cheap brandy. “Doesn’t much look like you’re the sort who needs to,” he says. do all right,” she tells him, handing the glass back to the boy. “But you won’t ask at what, because that’s none of your business, and I wouldn’t tell you, anyway.”
“I’d guess you married well, and the fucker died and left you everything. If I were to guess, but since it’s none of my business, I won’t.”
The collector of bones screws the cap back onto the brandy bottle and sets it aside. “Don’t go and get so drunk you’ll be useless,” she warns him.
The boy shrugs his shoulders, and he says, “Oh, I can hold my own.” So she laughs at him again, and this time he makes a face like she really has hurt his feelings. “Never mind,” the collector of bones tells the boy, and then she asks him to get undressed, and she slips out of her skirt and blouse and stockings while he watches. She gives him a condom, and then they spend half an hour fucking on the sofa, and she comes twice, which is better than usual. Most times,she doesn’t come at all, though she’s never yet blamed any of the whores for her own limitations. Afterwards, he asks for another drink, and this time she gives him the bottle, what’s left of the bottle, and tells him to finish it.
They sit naked together on the sofa, him drinking brandy and her watching him getting drunk, and it isn’t long before he asks why she offered him three times what he usually gets just to fuck.
“You’re not done quite yet,” she replies, and then she stands and walks across the room to the bookshelf, and she pretends that he’s watching her because he likes what he sees and not because he’s wondering what comes next. She opens a small box carved from sandalwood—something she bought on a business trip to Indonesia half a lifetime ago. Inside is a key strung on a faded length of silk ribbon the color of cranberries. She takes it out and closes the box again, and then the collector of bones turns back to the boy and holds the key up so it catches the dim light and she’s certain that he can see it.
“What’s that?” he asks, slurring just a little now, “It’s a key,” she says unhelpfully.
“I can see it’s a goddamn key,” he mutters and starts picking at the foil label on the brandy bottle. “What I’m asking is what it’s a key to? ”
“The key to the reason I’m paying you so 11111(11,” and then she says for him to follow her, not to bother with his clothes, just follow her. The boy sighs and shakes his head, but he does as he’s told. Money talks, and the flesh listens. She leads him down a short hall to a door that looks in no way different from any of the other doors in the apartment, except, of course, that she’s made sure he knows that it’s the door that fits the key from the little box, And that makes it the sort of door to be
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