Second Story Bedroom
James Seamarsh

Standing by the window, Amy slips her hand behind the dingy sheer curtains. Her eyes wander the street below.

A young mother walks, pushes a stroller, stops, picks up the blanket, bends down, wraps and tucks in her baby, ends with a gentle kiss. She straightens up, moves behind the stroller, grasps the handles, and pushes. A tired smile sets her face.

Amy looks over her shoulder, the door now closed, the man undressing.

“You have kids?” she asks.

He is older, pulling off his shirt, no ceremony, only habit. His sweat mixes with her perfume. He yanks at his belt, looks to her face.


She is petite, Asian. Turning towards him, her silk robe slides apart. His eyes follow the opening: small breasts, smooth belly, dark crotch. His eyes rest on her hips, his pants fall to the floor. The buckle clangs on the hardwood.

“Wha’d ya say?”


“Sure.” He pauses. “Two girls.”

Amy looks back out the window. The young mother and stroller wait at the corner for a safe crossing. Mother turns to the morning sun, warm on her face, tilts her head back. Their eyes meet. The bed squeaks.

“Let’s go, sweet pea.”

Amy lets the curtain fall, mother and stroller disappear.

“Massage first?” she asks.

He sidles to the middle of the bed, grins, and pats his chest. She smiles, glides forward, robe drifting behind.

The young mother, stroller tightly clasped, walks past the door: Massage – $60 per hour.