The Prostitute & the Clown | Short story – Fiction

The prostitute rushed to open the window in her bedroom, the clown should be passing by at any time now. She loved the sight of him. She had always been afraid of clowns, but this one made her heart beat faster in a mixture of fear, mystery and desire. What was it about this clown that excited her so? The way he walked? She wondered whether he´d noticed her watching him from the first-floor window from across the street. Yesterday he looked up, but she hid herself behind the wall. She’d been planning to approach him, but how?

The night was hot and close; the stars dotted the skies, it was so quiet that she thought she could hear them. Her forearms rested on the window sill while her head tilted back longing for some breeze, but the night was completely still. With her eyes closed she thought of the clown. Why did he amble about at such late hours? How long had he been strolling in that neighbourhood for? Just the thought of him made her body tremble. His posture, the way he moved his arms and smoked his cigarette, she imagined his would be a husky, gentle voice.

Snapping out of her daydream the prostitute looked to her right and there he was, the clown, leaning against the light post while flickering a lighter on and off. He had never stopped there before, he just passed by slowly. This was the moment she’d been expecting. The prostitute paced the room up and down, saw her reflection in the mirror, put her green dress on, and rearranged her blond hair finally letting it loose. While running downstairs she searched for words, words that could explain her platonic passion for him. It would make no sense. On the last step, the prostitute took a deep breath; only a small space separated her from the front door.

The prostitute opened the door looked up the street straight to the light post on the other side of the road, but the clown wasn’t there anymore. Her heart ceased beating so fast, she looked down and realised she was barefoot. The prostitute curled her toes, still holding the door handle; her heart had calmed in a familiar disappointment, it wasn’t as if this hadn’t happened before. How many times had she let her hair down, put her green dress on – which of late just hang behind the door for this occasion – and flew downstairs just to watch the clown go by night after night.

While still looking down, the prostitute let the door handle go and stood there on the edge of the door step grabbing onto her dress with both hands. In her usual habit she tilted her head back again, there was then a soft wind travelling along the run-down street, casting the chimes that she hang on her door frame for good luck. The pleasant sound broke off the stiff silence and stirred the street’s strong scents; as she inhaled, she smelled cigarette. The prostitute opened her round, brown eyes; the clown was standing right before her.

Just minutes before, he had stopped across the road to gain courage to go and talk to her. The clown could no longer keep to himself the passion and desire he had for the prostitute. It wasn’t his custom to stroll on that side of the street, so she just assumed he was gone, while he was slowly approaching her. There was nobody else around. He looked at her for a while, they didn’t say a word. Her skin was as soft as he had been imagining for weeks; his voice, was just as husky and gentle as she had expected.

[Original Content by Abigail Dantes 2017]

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