Noir Reality

There are two images. The one in which my eyes are open, and the one in which my eyes are closed. The latter I obviously prefer. The world is in black and white, flickering with the warmth that only celluloid can bring. A brunette lays upon my bed. I know what you are thinking. She holds in her right hand a cigarette in which smoke curls and crawl upon the walls and melds into the ceiling. The blanket is up to her collar bone, but it is tight around her curved figure, allowing just enough to the imagination while revealing slightly more than is usually acceptable. She is wearing perfectly red lip stick. The world is black and white except for her lips. They must be red. they are red. She doesn't smile. She doesn't need to smile. It was good. It always is. It is Noir. Wonderful Noir. The lamp in the corner flickers seductively. The shadows are as important as the clear images. 

The former is undoubtedly too real. The world is coloured, but far from picturesque. The colour adds a dankness and dullness to the apartment, making clear imperfections that where once hidden in the simplicity of black, white, and freckled friction. The shadows, being things of rare beauty in the previous image, make the room depressing and pathetic in the new image. On the bed lays a pretty woman void of any elegance. She is completely naked and covered in stale sweat. the blanket which covered the previous woman is now wrinkled and damp, pushed to the bottom of the bed, being held by the pressure of the two mattresses. She lays with her hands behind her back, her nipples glistening in the flickering light, eyes gazing at the white ceiling. She doesn't smile. She doesn't smile because she knows it was good. She doesn't smile because she knows it is never good. It isn't bad. It just isn't good. 

I close my eyes. Pale abstract whiteness. I open them, realist and ugly reality. I close them. Beautiful simplicity. I open them, ugly complications. She isn't ugly. She is real, which makes her tedious, hideous and serious. She lacks dignity and self respect. I look down. I am naked. I am disgusting. I am fat, frail, and uninviting. I catch our scent filled with stale sweet, pheromones, and bodily fluids. I close my eyes. The room is back to its previous version of civility and sterilization. That is civilization. Not this reality. Never this reality. I open my eyes. She is asleep. Laying upon the bed, her naked body vulnerable and undefinably repulsive. Her imperfections flicker brightly before my eyes, as the lamp changes the shades and shape of her human form, from one version of grotesqueness to another. The beasts within her loins, the ravages that exist upon her heaving breasts and idioms that linger on her stale breath. 

I close my eyes. She is still there, laying with elegance, her eyes closed and her cigarette burning in an ashtray on the bedside table. I climb into bed with her. She wraps her arms around me, her brown hair falling gently upon my heaving and muscular chest. I stroke her hair, and let the dame rest. She has been through much. I gotta find that devil man who keeps hounding her!! It all started with an afternoon in which she walked into my office. She was no regular Dame I can tell you that. She was nervous, you could tell by her she held her cigarette and puffed on it. She had a case for me you see. It was about her husband. He was having an affair she said. She needed a private detective she told me. She had an envelope of 20 dollar bills and a look of utter desperation. No regular dame I tell yeah. I was ready to take the case, not knowing what I was getting into.