In the Belly of the Beast

10

The first half of Ruby's night was spent in fitful sleep. She just couldn't seem to doze off. Each time she drifted into that twilight area between wakefulness and deep sleep, a flash of blue light seemed to jolt her awake. 

She tossed and turned and waited for the movie in her head to begin. She yearned for the man to visit her again, just as he had the night before. She longed to dream.

Half-images of the morning replayed inside her head. The trip to the store, the incident with the boys, the strange glow emanating from her pocketbook, the smaller boy touching her bag and falling to the ground in a crumpled heap.

What in the world had happened?

It was all too much for her brain to process. Her head pitched back and forth on the pillow, and her mouth uttered indecipherable things.

She heard a voice from somewhere, somewhere far off in the distance. He called to her. Ruby, Ruby, shhhh. Shhhh. It was a man's voice, gentle, calm, tranquil. So tranquil.

And with his voice came peace, and with the peacefulness, sleep.

***

She was in that room again. The same room from the night before. Did she recognize it? It was hard to tell. It felt strangely familiar, like home. But it wasn't her home, at least not her present one.

She was lying in bed this time, with nothing on but the slip. She stared at the walls. What was their color? Blue, she decided, pale blue. Not baby blue like the sky, but muted smoky pastel blue. 

Bare walls, no pictures, nothing that would orient her or clue her in to where she was. There were rows of windows lining two walls that ran from floor to ceiling. They were draped in sheer white curtains that hung from their sides, delicate and light, almost lacy in texture and quality.

Something deliciously smooth cradled her body. 

Satin sheets. 

The pillowcases were satin, too. Deep and rich and dark in color. Burgundy, the color of wine. She rolled her shoulders in the silkiness, catlike in her fluid motions. And like that Cheshire feline, smiled widely with delight.

A tune played softly in the background with vocal accompaniment. What was it? She had heard it before. Light, playful. It was swing.

She raised her hand before her, stretching her arm as far as it would go. The skin was smooth, young, and blemish-free. Her nails were perfectly manicured, the enamel red blazing on the ends of her fingers like lighted matches. She lost herself in admiration.

They were beautiful, these hands. So unlike her own now. None of the fingers was twisted and gnarled. None of the nails was thick and yellow, brittle and ragged at the corners, red with angry infections from cracks and chapped dryness. No age spots nor thick blue-veined branches marred the backs of these hands.

They must belong to someone else, she thought as she lay in the silken cocoon.

She raised a leg high into the air and saw a curving calf dissolve into a petite ankle. The same shade of enameled red that coated her fingernails lit her toenails.

She could not contain herself. She laughed aloud.

There was a light knock upon her door. It opened, and the man entered the room. He held a large bouquet of flowers, a multitude of colors and extravagant beauty.

He tossed them on the bed beside her. Their fragrance filled the room like an exotic perfume. He undressed, letting his clothes fall to the floor beside the bed.

He made love to her.

The blossoms lay among the remains of shattered petals, breathless and spent. His hand was on her temple, his forefinger moving slowly, back and forth, back and forth, barely touching her skin, soothing and comforting. 

The music played on in the background.

***

She opened her eyes. The man sat in the chair. He could have been a statue. Sylvester had moved from his lap and lay curled in a tight ball at his feet.

"Is it day or night?" she asked.

It was impossible to know the time. The room darkening shades and the absence of a clock left one to guess.

"It's still night, Ruby. Go back to sleep," he whispered.

She closed her eyes and obeyed. It wasn't really wasn't that bad, she thought, having this man in her room. In a funny sort of way, it was almost like having a guardian angel watching over her. Granted, the real ones probably did not carry guns, but she couldn't complain so far.

As a matter of fact, she decided that if given the choice of roommates, she would choose this unknown visitor over Geoffrey any time. Sylvester, she knew, would unanimously second her choice.

Besides, the idea of Geoffrey entering her dreams as this stranger had done made her physically ill. The mere thought of Geoffrey banging her left a heaviness in her that was unbearable. 

She'd be nothing but a grease spot when Geoffrey got off her. And his puny equipment was such a joke. He might as well use his pinky finger.

It was unquestionably bigger.

Better to leave these thoughts in the gutter where they belonged, she drowsily thought and was glad the man sitting in the chair could not read her mind.

The dim nightlight fell upon his face as he looked at Ruby. For the first time, a hint of a smile creased the stranger's lips.

She was right. Geoffrey's pinky was definitely bigger.