He never looks at me
Instead towers on top of me
All I heard from him was
"Good day" as he walks -
Towards the elevator every time
and to the eighth floor
and to his room thirty three
and he was called "Guest in the room"
by us girls, while we bitched

I envy the women in silhouette
who come to see him
They tell me, were models
And he paint them, for a living
I try to believe them
as I have seen his fingers
Pale and long, signing the papers
I watch them leaving-
the lounge, sometimes frigid
and other times blood rushing
all over their faces
All of them were tall and beautiful
not like me, short ugly and dull

So I walk to his room
As discreet as possible
I knew he been out, with another model woman
I open the door with the master key
Four walls were decorated with
the paintings of women, I know few of them!
All of them were nude in the posters
With perfects breasts and longest legs
Fuming me with a jealousy that,
I realize I lived all my life with

He was sleeping drunk, as usual
As I left home, as usual
I picked the lingerie from the wedding days
What if, who knows he may ask me to undress...

I take a break, pretending a headache
Retiring to the staff room
I wait a moment in front of the mirror
Believing I am NOT ugly as everyday
After all I had some roosh over my cheeks...

So I walk to his door
Returning the greetings from janitors
Politely knocking his door I wait
Shivering in expectations
He opens the door, eyes still sleeping
He yawns and points towards a chair
Where his cloths were lying, carelessly

He pours the coffee into cups
Offers me one, and sits down watching me
I wonder how the coffee tastes
Without washing one's mouth after a sleep
After few sips, he smiles, politely
and looks at me, as he wants to knows
Why I am there, in his room

I leave the cup on the floor and stand up
Let my dresses fall on floor
There is a mirror in the wall
I can see myself in a pair of red
lingerie
His eyes narrows into a line
He turns his face away from me
as if he was disgusted by me, myself

"Why not me?" I scream silently
As he struggles to free my fists
Clinching his nightgown
He shoves me back to the chair
Where I burst into sobs those I don't recognize

"It's not you, it is me"
He says with a sound calm like death
He uncovers a painting I haven't seen earlier
There stands a man, naked
"He is my love & I am taken"
"You should forgive me, if I hurt you"

Then I ran out of his room
in my red lingerie through the corridors
in to the arms of Violette
the only janitor who cares for me
She wraps a sheet around me
and I lose myself into a pitch darkness