It was a nice walk, I thought as we strolled back up
the hill to our hotel, which was in fact an old
historic Victorian with a sweeping view of the Puget
Sound. We could still hear the slightly drunken chatter
of the wedding we’d just left and while it was fun and
your old college friends seemed nice enough, I was
filled with darker aspirations.
The key turned in the door to the entry room at the top
of the stairs and we were greeted with the stale must
only antiques and really old people earn. The scent
stirred something nearly sinister in me and as you
started down the hall to our room I grasped your hand
and led you toward the staircase instead. The
staircase. A pure, fluid spiral suspended upwards 3
stories above the great room. It’s lack of visible
supports, perfect arc and pinched steepled finale
adorned in concave, floral mural and stained glass
aligned crosses on each solstice. It was foreboding and
peering straight up inspired just a touch of vertigo.
It was perfect.
You were already aware that I was up to no good (or was
it *really* good?) by the sternness in my grip as I led
you further round and round, storied relics below
passing from sight with each turn ’til it was just us
and the several nude Rubenesque darlings lounging near
our heads, voyeuristic and unblinking, waiting for our
colored glass-washed forms to unfold another dirty
secret for them to keep.