Zenith Hotel Read Free

choice.’
    ‘I know, sweetheart. Tell me, was it Georges who sent you?’
    ‘Yes, it’s for my birthday. Forty-eight springs, as he says.’
    ‘What a lovely present Georges has given you.’
    ‘I don’t know. I don’t know how to do it. I’ve never been able to.’
    ‘Don’t worry, I’ll show you. We’ve got twenty minutes. Now try and relax a little.’
    ‘OK, lady.’

    Good old Georges! You never know what he’ll come up with next. But this is a first. Dominic, poor Dominic. Really sad, really hard done by. And completely bonkers to boot.

    On the bus home. Can they imagine what I’ve just done? I doubt it. What about them, what have they been up to? Actually, I don’t give a shit. I don’t need them. I don’t care what happens to them, they don’t exist for me. We’re on the same bus. They don’t speak and neither do I.

    I have no compassion, that’s something I’ve lost. I don’t even feel anything for the kids in the street, the cute little creatures with blond or dark curls throwing sticks and running around all over the place. I’m surrounded by jelly, it feels as if I’m flailing around at the bottom of a big jar of jam. It sticks to my skin. I can’t shake it off. I’m in this jar, with my cheeks stuck to a high glass wall. I press my forehead against it and wait my turn for the knife to come and then squidge me on the burning-hot toast. Sickly sweet goo that sticks to your skin. I’ve lost my compassion. It’ll never come back now, I’m too old.

    If only I were truly alone. Don’t count on it. We’re alone in the midst of people, we’re alone in the midst of their solitude, we’re alone with others. People stink,swarm and sweat. I don’t run away from them, but I don’t go near them either.
    They’re simply there, as alone as I am. I used to think that men paid me to get away from all that. Perhaps that’s what they think too. But I can tell you that when they screw me, when they get all horny jiggling about on top of my poor inert body, those sad suckers are well and truly alone. We don’t share anything . They’re alone when they fuck me. They’re faced with nothing but a waiting body, an absent body, its mind elsewhere, a body that’s simply trying not to feel too much pain. They can’t be unaware of it, they can’t forget that they’re alone when they’re with me. Guys think they come to talk to me, that they’re unhappy, that I help them. I give them nothing but the harshest image of their lives, the reflection of their misery. That’s all they get. Bankers, family men, workers, guys with syphilis, poets, boxers, they all wallow in the same swamp. They leave more dejected than when they arrived. You can see it in their faces, their features puffy with loneliness – that bitch solitude, which they can’t do anything about. Go on, try, get married, fuck old whores, have kids, read novels, you’ll always be alone. Christ, it’s about time you accepted that that’s your destiny. It’s bitter, but you still have to swallow it.
    I’m going to sleep for a bit, so I don’t have to think about my life.

    I don’t know why I write. It churns me up, it soils me from inside. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m doing this. To pass the time, perhaps. That’s it. I write like some people do crosswords, it keeps me busy. I think about words, style, the shapes of the letters. I feel as if I’m doing something without getting up off my arse. It’s not vital, it’s not therapeutic. I don’t know, I write to keep my hands occupied, like doodling on Post-its when you’re on the phone. I fill pages, writing one sentence after another. It’s a pointless exercise, but it keeps me busy. I could listen to the radio, do sudokus, read the paper or look out of the window, but I write, I don’t know why. I kill time. It’s a tough bastard.
    I’m a pen-pushing old slag. How about that?

    I’m not a fanatic. I don’t like literary types. I don’t like those guys with