Arthur Giddleman's Ankle

He was one of her least disliked clients. Kind. Benevolent. Octogenarian. Most favorably, impotent. They spent hours at a time together,(booked in advance of course) enjoying plush hotel rooms, and delighting in her connective comforts, provided for a nominal donation.

Mr. Arthur Giddleman possessed an exceptionally dry personality. Rather reminiscent of pretentiously folded, decorative hand towel. A Certified Public Accountant by trade, the unchanging logic of numbers and statistics availed him certainty and comfort. It was the structure upon which he hung his mortality.

Receiving a call affirming his arrival, she made a quick assessment of her product in the mirror. Still top billing. After a quick misting of scented oil, and a dab of carnelian colored lip gloss, atop the high thread count coverlet of an unmussed bed, she waited.

Mr. Giddleman arrived by city cab to their clandestine escapade. He arthritically jerked himself up and out, into the brisk autumn night, brimming with the anticipation of a magical evening. Somehow, that’s not exactly how it played out.

She left the door slightly ajar. A short while later, Arthur entered the room, to be greeted as she deduced he needed to be. A gentle smooch upon his wrinkled cheek, accompanied by a calculated giggle and coy return to the bed. Now the comes the part where poor, dear Arthur unknowingly sets himself up for disaster.

Tan skin makes bodies look better, she thought. More desirable. Most favorably, more expensive. Shining, resplendently bronze skin…that would be best for business. Hitting the tanning bed 3 times weekly, religiously she sprayed and massaged her body with sweetly scented oils. There’d be no dry, peeling skin for this courtesan. That would be patently unacceptable presentation at her price point.

Per usual, Arthur left her a weighty envelope on the bathroom sink. He removed and hung up his favorite Brook Brother’s sweater (that just happened to be a few years older than his companion for the evening), and neatly folded his khaki slacks. Purposely avoiding the sight of his decrepitude, he turned from the marble sink top and entered the luxuriously designed shower. The warm water soothed his cold, aged bones.

The sound of wet skin squeaking against porcelain, unsuccessful at finding the balance being sought on this intricately patterned tile floor.

A loud, solid, thud.

Then nothing except the soft hiss of the still running shower.

Instinctively, she knew this couldn’t be good.

“You alright in there Honey?” She queried with a positive lilt.

It took a minute to catch his breath, but eventually he responded in a gravelly tone, “I’m so sorry dear. I think I’ll have to cancel our date tonight. I’ve slipped on some grease, and I think my ankle is broken.” This he relayed in monotone, with the stoicism once prized by his generation.

She didn’t wish to further emasculate an impotent senior, but she felt it only right to ask…

“Do you need help Hon?”

He’d never been so embarrassed in his 8 decades of living. Nor did he accept her offer of assistance. Somehow, he managed to redress himself nearly as sharply as he’d arrived. Repeating his apologies, Arthur exited the room with one expensive, aged brown loafer in hand, one wool-socked foot questionably angled, and a wonderment how the hell he always ended up on the downside. Limping like a beaten dog, he took home the first cab he could hail down.

Picking the generous donation up off the bathroom counter, she briefly, pieced together what had just happened. Studying the angles and curvature of her softly glowing body in the mirror, she figured poor old Arthur had taken a slide through her delectable body oil, which had dripped unnoticed, upon last application. Cash-heavy envelope in hand, she found herself devoid of pity.

Smirking smugly, she shook her head and tucked her compensation safely away. You asked for this, Buddy. In fact, you literally paid for it. Sorry Arthur. Hope that ankle heals up real quick.

Shaking the immediately preceding events from her mind, she applied a fresh spritzing of oil, dabbed her lips softly crimson, and awaited the arrival of her next client; leaving the room’s door slightly ajar.