They called it a flop house, I guess for lack of a better, more modern word.
It was really an abandoned factory that no one ever cared to demolish.

Its lobby was once a shop floor that could barely keep lit with the flickering, weakened incandescent bulbs on the walls. The bulbs and their sconces were sticky with cobwebs and soot and all the filth that blew in every time the door was opened. All of it layered on top of the grime that was already there from the days when the factory was open and busy.
Back in the days when people cared about it. Only a few of us cared about it now.

An old-fashioned cigarette machine stood guard next to the desk. After all these years, it still worked and somehow it was always stocked with those old familiar smokes – Marlboros and Newports and Camels. Maybe because it was the only relief from the outside world any of us could find. Someone, somewhere made it a point to fill it.
We were grateful for that.

The door to my room was weathered by so many years of neglect and decay.
A full-length body mirror hung on its back. Its edges all cracked and chiseled from every box and bottle that got slammed into it over the years.

The window panes were still held together by pulling, rusted nails.
What was left of the lead-thickened paint was chipping and flaking and collected in dusty forgotten piles on the floor boards beneath.

Actually, all of the rooms were pretty much the same.
They were re-purposed from what were once offices.
In the deepest quiet of the loneliest nights, I could hear the typewriters plinking and I could hear
the idle chatter of secretaries and salesmen. If I concentrated hard enough, I could even smell
fresh brewed coffee out of stainless steel electric thermos pots.
How wonderful a taste that must have been! Hot, fresh-brewed coffee to fill the belly and warm
the flesh and bring a brighter light to drooping morning eyes.
But wishing and wanting does very little to warm the bones.

Musty blankets littered the floors, sometimes carelessly dropped in seemingly random piles.
Although, more than once I found that some critter had pulled them together to warm its own
nest and nights.
Some were tightly pulled around circles of people sitting cross-legged in the corners
pontificating on this and that.
No matter what, the blankets gave us a little extra comfort through the bone-chilling nights as we
all talked away the hours that never seemed to end.
Some folks stayed bundled in those blankets, huddled deep inside corners and never spoke a
word.
Some folks sprawled themselves out across the creaking dilapidated beds that had been dropped
in each room.
If someone was lucky enough to get hold of a bottle, the booze got passed around – especially to
the ones that curled up alone. Never did have any coffee inside those walls.

And no matter how much violence found its way inside, we all still needed each other.
We were considered the dregs and the untouchable-unapproachable people of the city.
We were forced to need each other…no one else in that world wanted us or would ever need us.
In a very loose interpretation of the word, we were family there.

Every room was a refuge, but all of us knew each other.
Each of us knew when another was out of the building or sound asleep.
Each of us knew when another had left and would never return.
Each of us knew – but never spoke it – when another had left the house to die.
It’s funny to me that we always knew without ever speaking it out loud.

I laid down on the hardwood slat flooring on top of the thickest blanket I could scavenge and
pulled a couple tattered, powdering blankets on top of me, keeping my head exposed.
Sure, we became like a family, but it was not a family I would trust with my life.
We were certainly beyond dysfunctional.
Sleep only found me when I was too exhausted to keep ahold of consciousness.

I lit a cigarette and watched people come and go.
I listened to a group of younger folks huddled in the corner, ranting and raving about their
current state of affairs.
“Things would be different if they would help us get out! Things would be different if they didn’t
get all the lucky breaks! Things would be different if I had a silver spoon!”
Gimme, gimme, gimme.

I never wanted anything to do with those conversations.
I was here of my own doing. There was no one to blame, although I never felt the want or desire
to blame anyone else, and I certainly never thought to begrudge anyone for their circumstances
being better than my own.
I could pick up and leave at any time. I always knew I could change my world.
But…right now, I just couldn’t muster the strength or the ambition to do it.
That was no one’s doing but my own. At least that was mine. One of my last possessions.

I flicked my cigarette butt off to the side and lit another.
I heard some feet shuffling to my left.
I heard an empty bottle get clumsily kicked out of the way by uncaring feet, and then the
shuffling stopped in front of me.

She was maybe ten or fifteen years older than me, but she looked so much older.
No matter her looks, she still managed to act like a thirty-something girl.
She crouched down spreading her legs as she bounced on her heels.
“You look cold under there.”
She let herself fall down to the floor in a thud and stretched herself out in front of me.
She pulled back my top covers and I didn’t move to stop her.
She slid her hips first, inching closer to my body, and then the rest of her body snaked itself right
up against me. She propped her head up on her hand and smiled at me.
“Oh, thank you!” and she plucked the cigarette from my mouth and sucked a heavy drag from it.
I could taste her when she pushed it back between my lips, the filter soaked with her suck.
I didn’t care. I didn’t show much by way of emotion. I didn’t move or speak.

She began to push her fingers into my already tangled hair, but it felt good. Even when she
pulled and tugged at the snarls, a woman’s touch felt good. It had been so long.

“Do you like me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”

And she pulled my covers over herself, too, so we were both covered in a cozy, tight cocoon for two.

I could smell the wine and smoke on her breath, but I didn’t care.
I could feel the hardness of her nipples against my chest.
Her cheek was still so baby-soft and delicate against my own.
Her lips were light but still so youthfully juicy, and she gently kissed my lips.
She held the kiss and breathed into my mouth and she flicked me with her tongue as she leaned
back on her hand again.
She took my cigarette again, but this time she kept it. I didn’t protest. Her kiss was magic.

“Am I too old for you?’
“No.”

Her smile grew and she laid close against me.
She unbuttoned her blouse as she kissed and licked at my lips and my tongue and my face.
Her hands wandered over my body until she reached what she wanted.
And then she stopped. I felt her body relax against mine.

She felt good. She tasted good.
And I must’ve tasted just as good to her because she had a contented smile on her lips.
She was already fast asleep. Such a peaceful sleep. I never would have thought such a thing was
possible in such horrendous conditions. Then again, peace is where you find it.

If you can feel good – even for just a couple minutes – you can slip into contented peace, no
matter where you find yourself. You just have to look for it…and see it when you find it.

For whatever reason, my body and my arms and those musty blankets made her feel good.
For whatever reason, I brought some peace into her harsh existence.
I was caught completely off-guard, but she brought me some peace, too.
Feeling good is good enough.

– Frank Weber