Monday Mourning

The air felt hot and dry and smelled of smoke and decades of unventilated cooking.

“You’re a looker, all right.” Cyr winked up at Anne, who stood a good foot taller than he. He seemed to have forgotten that he was naked.

“You want to throw a blanket on ole Hopalong?” Anne suggested.

“I thought you was Watchtower,” said Cyr in English. “Those folks ain’t got the common sense God gave a parsnip. But they leave you alone if you’re naked.” It came out nek-kid. “Or tell ’em you’re Catholic.” It came out cat-lick.

Anne pointed at Cyr’s genitalia.

Cyr led us through leaded glass doors and gestured to a living room on the right.

“Gimme a minute.”

Cyr began climbing a central stairway, placing one foot on a riser, then joining it with the other, one blue-veined hand gripping the banister. His body looked frog-belly white against the dark wood paneling covering the stairwell, and his ascending derriere was hairy black.

Plastic crackled as Anne and I settled on opposite ends of a rose brocade sofa. I unzipped and removed my parka.

“I never saw this on Cagney and Lacey.”

I grinned in response. My eyes took a visual tour. Opposite the sofa, a La-Z-Boy and a plastic-coated armchair. Stage right, a fireplace, the bricks painted brown. Stage left, a small organ, a large TV with a shabby armchair pulled close to the screen. No plastic.

Everywhere, velvety quiet.

I wondered if the old man had added the vinyl slipcovers, or simply left them in place when the furniture was delivered.

I doubted there was a Mrs. Cyr. There were no figurines, photographs, or souvenirs of holidays past. Ashtrays overflowed. Stacks of Playboy and National Geographic filled the fireplace enclosure.

I noticed Anne was also checking the place out.

“This could all be yours,” I said in a low voice. “I think Cyr’s in love.”

“I think ole Hopalong is harmless,” Anne whispered back.

“You said you craved life in the fast lane.”

“The little guy is a biscuit.”

I wondered if she meant ole Hopalong or Cyr, but didn’t ask.

Moments later we heard footfalls.

Cyr reappeared wearing sneakers, a green plaid shirt, and gray wool pants hiked up to his nipples.

“You girls want a drink?”

We both declined.

“Nice nip on a snowy day?”

“No thank you.”

“Speak up if you change your minds.”

Cyr shuffled to the recliner and lowered himself, a tsunami of Old Spice following in his wake.

“You’ve got a damn fine head of hair, young lady.” Cyr spoke to Anne.