The Bohemian Embassy Part 3 ...Bewitched By a Stranger
I was having second thoughts about staying at the Bohemian Embassy, especially when my landlord was so intimidating.
I was rattled by Bastard’s wild appearance and unruly hair—he seemed a madman. I poured a scotch, drank it and was starting on a second when there was a knock at my door.
I answered it with misgiving, hoping it was not the crazed Antoine. I was shocked to see a beautiful woman—the very one from my dream—or, at least, a reasonable facsimile thereof.
“M-m-may, I help you?” I stammered.
She smiled, obviously bemused by my reaction.
“How do you, do?” she purred, “I’m your neighbour from upstairs, and I’m in search of Absynthe.”
It seemed a rather forward introduction.
“I’m afraid all I can offer you at the moment is scotch or Shiraz, Miss—”
“Bigelow,” she intoned huskily, proffering her hand, “Gillian Bigelow.”
“Scott Henderson,” I replied shaking the hand, and noting how silky soft and warm it felt.
“But I’m not bohemian in tastes like that dreadful Antoine—he drinks Absinthe and lives in a dream of green fairies.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, and of course, I didn’t.
I had no idea what she was talking about—not that I cared—I was mesmerized by her eyes. They were violet.
“But, I will take you up on a glass of Shiraz,” she smiled mischievously.
“Please do—come in,” I said awkwardly, feeling for all the world like a bumbling version of Jimmy Stewart.
She entered the flat and sat on the sofa. She was dressed in skin-tight black leather pants and was wearing a huge black designer sweater.
She had the supple grace of a panther. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
“I’ve always like this flat,” she said in a dreamy voice.
I handed her the Shiraz, “You like this flat—then, why haven’t you leased it?”
“I need to be up high,” she purred.
I nodded as if that made sense, which it didn’t.
“So, have you seen Absynthe?”
“Who’s Absynthe?” I asked dumbly.
“My Siamese,” she whispered. “She likes to come down here and hang out.”
“I wonder why,” I said, making small talk.
“I think she does it to go hunting—but then, of course, I have to go searching after her. It becomes our game.”
“And what does she hunt?”
She took a slow sip of Shiraz, peering directly at me over the edge of her glass—the violet eyes holding me in thrall. “Men,” she said.
I felt a cold shiver run up my spine.
Nothing had gone right since I took up lodging in this rooming house and despite this woman's feral beauty I felt bothered and bewildered...
Perhaps, I could have also mentioned bewitched.