Blood

I slid my tongue across my lips and tasted the salt of my tears mixed with the metallic tang of blood.
I lit a cigarette as the tinkling sound of drizzle echoed on the old tiled roof of that shabby room. Through the window, the dark night seemed endless.
My fragile body, still damp with sex and alcohol, trembled like the withered leaves of the ancient tree outside the corner bar. I took a hot shower and ran the soap over my skin, as if I could wash away the marks and the anguish of my soul—but some strange feeling told me that nothing would ever be the same after that night.
I could still smell his woody perfume, lingering between my thighs, announcing the moment of his departure.

I noticed a car pulling up near the bar, its high beams sweeping over the cobblestone streets by the hotel and flooding the shabby room with light. The sheets, still soaked in sweat, smelled of that same repulsive old man who used to visit my mother at night.
I had to get out of there, to leave behind the sadness choking my throat.

I went down the stairs quietly to avoid the nosy gaze of Judith—the meddlesome receptionist who flirted with anyone who dared glance at her breasts.
I crossed the street carefully, trying to shield myself from the rain with my black cloak. The wind caught it anyway, wrapping around me as I reached the bar, creating a ghostly effect between my dark wavy hair and the long tunic.

I found my favorite table free—the one with two chairs on the right side of the counter. I always liked that spot; it let me see the pedestrian street, where excited tourists took pictures beside the fountain of those grotesque little angels. I’d always watched them from the bar. They seemed alive. Damn cherubs.

I remember it well. He told me:
“Take your time, have a shower, and I’ll meet you at the bar.”
I thought, I’ll have a coffee, to counter the wine still coursing through my veins.

At the counter, I noticed a handsome young man drinking whiskey. He was attractive, but I wasn’t in the mood to flirt. That night had already been too intense—arguments and sex and everything in between—to add another fleeting conquest. From my table, I could catch the scent of his cologne: sensual like his lips, deep like his eyes.
I looked away. I didn’t want trouble.
“Pour me another one!” he told the bartender, his voice firm and masculine.
His accent gave him away. Les rues parisiennes always carried that mix of freshly brewed café allongé, history, art, and beautiful tourists.

That bar was our meeting place. The crowd never stopped talking; at times it was overwhelming, deafening, especially with the jazz music I’d never liked. That old gramophone deserved better than jazz.
The minutes dragged by, slow and agonizing, like Jack—the oldest waiter in the bar. Poor man. He worked double shifts to support his two families. The nightlife and its excesses had condemned him to that.

As the night grew older, I knew he wouldn’t come. He had abandoned me. My heart shrank with the realization, though I loved him with all I had. Yet, somehow, I was sure he felt more of a man with me, and that he would come back.

Through the wet darkness of the street, I saw a silhouette running wildly through the rain, searching for direction.
I’ll admit—I got my hopes up.
It was Judith, her gaze empty, her face pale. She looked like a corpse, all bones and ghostly skin. I saw her whisper something to the bartender, then collapse. The handsome young man rushed to hold her, trying to help her breathe. After a moment, she came to, trembling like someone who’d just seen the devil himself.

Suddenly, red lights illuminated the alley near the hotel. Police stormed in, and people fled in panic.
I didn’t want to go outside—the rain was unbearable. October is always like that.
The bartender hurried out, eager not to miss the gossip. Judith, seizing the moment, stayed alone at the counter with the young man—never one to miss a chance to lure a man to her bed.

Between whispers, the bartender returned and said they’d found a body in one of the rooms. Number 5.
Room 5. The very room where, just hours earlier, I had surrendered myself to the strong, passionate arms of my lover.
I couldn’t hold back the tears. I ran into the street, faster than I ever had. Now the waiting made sense. He never made it to the bar.
Between relief and despair, I thought—he stayed with me. He never left. Deep down, I always knew she was never enough woman for him.

I begged the detective to let me fetch my belongings from the room, but he ignored me with a look of contempt. Amid the chaos of policemen and guests rushing through the corridors, I managed to slip inside Room 5. Everything was just as I’d left it. I couldn’t understand. Fear crept through me as I noticed the bathroom door slightly ajar and thick, suffocating steam pouring out. I could barely breathe. I didn’t remember leaving the water running.
Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably, and that cursed red-and-white tape announced that something was terribly wrong.

For a moment, I hesitated—thought about running. Then one of the officers came in, followed by the forensic man in his white suit and with his scientific case. I gathered my courage and looked through the doorway. I had to see it with my own eyes.
I couldn’t wait any longer. Alarmed, the officer and the expert called out to another to collect evidence.
There, beside the bed, on the old wooden nightstand, they found my ID. What a foolish mistake.

I stayed frozen in the corner, hidden among the shadows of that room, as panic overtook me.
“Sir—it’s her!” the assistant shouted to the sergeant.
I started trembling, my heartbeat roaring inside my chest.

I ran, not caring where, and there it was—almost like a scene from an Agatha Christie thriller: blood splattered across the white tiles, the choking steam, and a lifeless hand hanging over the side of the tub.
“It’s my bracelet!” I screamed with all my strength, but no one answered.

And there she was—alone, forsaken, torn apart inside by heartbreak and mutilated beyond mercy.
No one heard me. No one helped me. And as I bled out among my shattered pieces, I left this world without a word.

With my broken soul, I still wait for my love every night at that same table, in that same corner bar.
Perhaps one day he’ll remember his promise and come back...
Because deep down, I know—she was never woman enough for him.