The Red(43)

She turned her attention to the book. A slim volume of blue, with "Picasso" printed on the spine. So tonight was to be surreal in some way? Her vision was already beginning to blur thanks to the potent red wine. Potent and delicious. She couldn't get enough of it. She drank every drop of the wine before setting the empty glass on the desk and opening the book to the page marked with her red velvet choker.

Mona blinked when she saw the painting. Then she giggled. Oh, Malcolm. The painting was called Dora and the Minotaur. It was a large, brightly colored work. A naked woman lay on her back as a pale Minotaur-a creature with a bull's head and a man's body-mounted her. Dora Maar, according to the book, had been Picasso's muse and mistress. And he often painted the Minotaur as a symbol of himself. From what she knew of Picasso's personality and libido, he had chosen his avatar well.

So it was to be role play again? She imagined Malcolm wearing a leather mask, with horns on his head and a bull's large sloped eyes. A laughable idea. She wouldn't put it past him at all. She recalled the satyr's role he'd played so well, the hairy leggings that had felt so warm and real, the pointed ears. Well, she would play along. Where Malcolm was concerned she was up for anything. She swayed a little on her feet as she rose from her desk. Malcolm was no doubt already waiting for her in their back room.

As she walked to the door, another memory stirred. Hadn't Malcolm said something about how she would hate him next time? He had, yes. The night with the riding crop kisses, he'd given her permission to love him since next time they met she would hate him. Now that was laughable, utterly laughable. She couldn't hate Malcolm. Another mind game. She was growing fond of them.




 

 

Mona slowly opened the back room door. It was dark inside. Completely dark. The sun had set and no light shown through the skylight. No light at all. Strange. There should have been some ambient light in the room from the street lamps and the moon. But no, the room was pitch black. The door shut behind her and she leaned her back against it, afraid of taking another step in the dark lest she trip and fall.

"Malcolm?"

He didn't answer her call.

Something else was off. Usually the room smelled of nothing but clean dust, the scent of old books, old theaters, old paint. After a night with Malcolm it smelled of cigar smoke and sex. But now it smelled like an animal had been in here. A large animal. Was that the wine's doing? A breeze blew past her, warm like a sea breeze. Her nose twitched. There was that scent again. A kind of animal musk. The smell troubled her nose. It didn't belong in here. She fumbled for the doorknob behind her and felt a string tied to it. She followed the string with her fingers and found it extended far into the room. Now she understood the darkness-she was to follow the string where it led. There was an old myth about the labyrinth, a thread to guide a girl …  Who was the girl, again? Ariadne? She'd been out of school too long to say for certain. But she knew the string was to guide her through the labyrinth. She took a steadying breath and stepped forward, thread in hand. Malcolm certainly went all out for these assignations. No wonder two months could pass between their liaisons. It would take anyone that long to put these sorts of scenes together. Perhaps he'd majored in theater at university.

She giggled a little drunkenly at the thought. Oh no, not laughing already. It would likely hurt Malcolm's feelings if she laughed at this production of his. She must be very solemn. Following the string in her hand, Mona felt herself walking toward the center of the back room. She sensed walls on either side of her. Malcolm had constructed a whole set for tonight. How flattering it was he went to so much trouble when she would have met him in a seedy motel had he asked it of her. Of course he went to all this trouble to please himself, not her, but she couldn't deny she enjoyed that he took their assignations so seriously.

Ahead of her she caught a glimpse of light, red and flickering. The thread led her to turn a corner and she saw a fat white candle alight on the floor in the middle of a blank hallway. She picked up the candle in its holder and raised it. The candle illuminated only the few feet around her, and she saw nothing ahead but the white thread she held. The walls on either side of her were narrow. They looked and felt like stone to her. But that was highly unlikely. It wouldn't take long to build a maze out of large sheets of plywood, but a stone maze would take weeks. He was either a very good set designer or she had been drugged. 

Considering how light she felt, how fluttery and faint, she figured it was the latter. Malcolm had spiked the wine with some drug or other, one that made her very susceptible to the power of suggestion and also made her care not one whit that he'd drugged her.