After heady concentration on the other world of sex, what does a fellow need but a late-night tryst with a fair damsel, Maid Eloise?
I waited as instructed on the corner of Jefferson and Seventieth and at twelve I was beginning to wonder when I should get upset. No sooner wondered than I was presented with a vision turning my way from the alley corner. Even fancy houses in Indianapolis seem to have alleys. Eloise Crystal, nightgowned and bearing boxes, came bouncing toward me barefoot. Who is to say that movies are the unreal world?
I had one powerful headache.
I opened the door and she slid in beside me. Not just onto the seat, but beside me.
“It took me a long time,” she said breathlessly. “To find the right ones and to get out of the house. I ran all the way. But I made it, didn’t I?” She looked up at me, her face reflecting streetlight madly. I wondered if she was high. I wondered if I was high.
What do you say? “You got them though,” I said.
“I’m sorry I was coy with you in your office today. I don’t want that to be the way I’m going to be.” She took my hand and kissed it, and in almost the same moment she slid back out the door and broke through the street-lit patch of curb into the darkness of the alley mouth. A romantic vision for a simple man. Perhaps Maid Eloise would be more aptly appellated Just Plain Eloise.
What do you do with clients who kiss your bloody hand?