the devil went down to chelsea

catefrances

he knew where to find her. shed been coming here for years and she always stayed at the same place. she was superstitious that way. also cause she felt at home here. and feelign comfortable and at ease somewhere was what kept ehr sane. he also knew shed spend half the day lolling in bed. not cause she was lazy but cause she hadnt gone to bed until 4am that morning. he knew that when she did manage to drag herself from between the sheets, (which would more than likely be balled up on the floor after being pushed off the end of the bed by her nocturnal restlessness) shed do so with a cold shower, shot of vitamin b, two cups of thick black coffee and then level it all by smoking a couple of joints. he remembers the first time she tried cream cheese on a bagel. two chews and she spat it out into the wax paper and vowed never to touch one again. shed drag the small desk that usually sat close to the bed, across the room and place it in front of the east facing window so she could watch the silent world of the city. people hunkered down against the cold, zippers pulled up tight under their chin, hands shoved deep into their pockets, feet taking them directly to their destinations with no distractions. the steam would rise from the manholes, yellow taxis would scream through the streets vying for attention, and piles of garbage shrouded in black plastic lay heaped under a blanket of pristine white snow. he also knew her well enough to know that if at all possible, shed be staying in the same room the 4th floor.
he pushed through the glass doors under the striped awning with his shoulder into the warmth of the lobby. he had no use for the man standing behind the reception counter. a mutual friend had confirmed her room number. he hung a right and through the fire ascended the stairs. it was like an exclusive art gallery; the works of resident and visiting artists hung on the walls. he had to admit a lot of them were quite good. others though did nothing for him. but he knew how subjective art could be and couldn’t care less if others produced ‘bad’ art. art was art and it was for its own sake that it existed. Or so he thought. twas an opinion he shared with her. she was a fan of street graffitti and in the past hed spent hours trailing after her while she took photos of anything that interested her. he came to learn she was interested in a whole lot. standing in front of the black door, he paused to collect himself. two sharp knocks and 30 seconds later, there she was. she smiled and stepped aside to let him enter.

catefrances

he knew where to find her. shed been coming here for years and she always stayed at the same place. she was superstitious that way. also cause she felt at home here. and feelign comfortable and at ease somewhere was what kept ehr sane. he also knew shed spend half the day lolling in bed. not cause she was lazy but cause she hadnt gone to bed until 4am that morning. he knew that when she did manage to drag herself from between the sheets, (which would more than likely be balled up on the floor after being pushed off the end of the bed by her nocturnal restlessness) shed do so with a cold shower, shot of vitamin b, two cups of thick black coffee and then level it all by smoking a couple of joints. he remembers the first time she tried cream cheese on a bagel. two chews and she spat it out into the wax paper and vowed never to touch one again. shed drag the small desk that usually sat close to the bed, across the room and place it in front of the east facing window so she could watch the silent world of the city. people hunkered down against the cold, zippers pulled up tight under their chin, hands shoved deep into their pockets, feet taking them directly to their destinations with no distractions. the steam would rise from the manholes, yellow taxis would scream through the streets vying for attention, and piles of garbage shrouded in black plastic lay heaped under a blanket of pristine white snow. he also knew her well enough to know that if at all possible, shed be staying in the same room the 4th floor.
he pushed through the glass doors under the striped awning with his shoulder into the warmth of the lobby. he had no use for the man standing behind the reception counter. a mutual friend had confirmed her room number. he hung a right and through the fire door, ascended the stairs. it was like an exclusive art gallery; the works of resident and visiting artists hung on the walls. he had to admit a lot of them were quite good. others though did nothing for him. but he knew how subjective art could be and couldn’t care less if others produced ‘bad’ art. art was art and it was for its own sake that it existed. or so he thought. twas an opinion he shared with her. she was a fan of street graffitti and in the past hed spent hours trailing after her while she took photos of anything that interested her. he came to learn she was interested in a whole lot. and sometimes that included him. standing in front of the black door, he paused to collect himself. two sharp knocks and 30 seconds later, there she was. she smiled and stepped aside to let him enter.