she called as he came down the hall towards her room. “Are you decent? Can I come in?” he asked her. “Come on in, baby,” she said. He opened the door and stepped inside. She was sitting up in bed with a tea-tray across her knees, flanked by two pink-shaded lamps. All around her, on the satin bedspread, were scattered pieces of her afternoon—scraps of mail, newspapers; a book spread open, face down, bottles of nail lacquer and remover, Kleenex, and various other tubes and jars of cosmetics, an ashtray crowded with cigarette butts, a couple of partly emptied packs of cigarettes, matches, a box of cotton balls, cuticle scissors, an ivory-backed hand mirror and, it seemed to him, a good deal else. On her tray a china pot held tea, and her full teacup was steaming. She was wearing a marabou-trimmed bed-jacket and, as she lifted her arm, smoking her cigarette, wispy bits of feathers seemed to float from her sleeve. Her yellow hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she had rested a pair of green-tinted reading glasses on her nose.
What do You think about The Towers Of Love (2016)?
