Today is the day, the long awaited day. As I step out of the house, neighbors start to stare at me like it is a miracle. They have never seen me outside since I moved in. They only know that somebody has been inside there because they saw me entering the day I moved in.
I return a few hours later, holding a girl’s hand, and these neighbors shake their heads as if they have had some awakening: “no wonder! That explains it!
I feel a little disappointed in them. I am like, “I am trying to mind my own business here – can everybody do the same, please?”
I slip the key into the lock, turns it and suddenly the screeching hinges indicate that it is time to enter. As I take the lady’s hand, she exclaims, “So this flat of yours has a room set aside for dustbins?”
I am like, “princess, welcome home.” Clearly, I can tell that she does not know if she is entering a house or getting outside.
She goes, “I feel like I am inside a shoe with a rotting rat inside.” She doesn’t say it verbally but I can read it on her face.
She suddenly responds to the situation, instinctively. I sit in front of my laptop, pretending to be busy as she does the laundry, mops the floor and does the dishes – all of which have been there for more than a week. When she is not looking, I stare at the work of God’s hands.
An hour later, I no longer recognize where I am. I remember how the house looked before she came, and ask myself what type person I have been, living in a rubbish dump.
“Whatever, “ I console myself and put on some slow jam music.
I am a romantic man, you know. Actually, sort of. There is nothing like a romantic man. We, men, don’t really care about that nonsense, we just know what we want. We all do unbelievable things just to because that is what it takes to … you know. I don’t mean to be frank, but… when you are trying to sleep with someone… you know.
Now the slow jam music goes with some wine. The wine is cheap but she says nothing about it so there is no worry there. I light a candle and turn off the lights. The first minutes into the drinking is passed with some conversation. Well, I say “conversations” but if you ask me now, I have no idea what she has been parroting about all this time. My mind has been somewhere else – a place that only God and I know.
Suddenly, the parroting stops, the clothes start to peel off, and my hands are all over the place. There is heavy breathing, and I know for once and for sure that nothing is forbidden.
“God, I am about to repeat the first sin. I repent in advance. Amen.” My mother used to tell me to remember to pray before everything.
She collapses into my arms and whispers, “what are you waiting for? I am yours for the taking.”
And so there we are, between the dim candle light and the shadows on the wall. The shadows get tangled and intertwined. They move in rhythm as if dancing to some strange music playing from some spiritual world. Their dancing gets more intense and vigorous as time passes, and it is only clear they this can longer be a dance – it must be a possession by evil spirits. Then suddenly, the shadows slow down. One shadow lies on top of the other, motionless, only their chests pumping hard.
They say that when a woman takes you to heaven in a chariot of fire, you experience la petite mort, you know, the little death. She kills you. As I resurrect, I pull out some cash and try to hand them to her.
“What are those for?” She asks.
“For the services rendered?” I reply in a thick Lakeside accent.
“Are you calling me a prostitute?” she asks, angrily.
“No!” I tried to explain, “Not like that? I am just showing my appreciation, you know. It is a very long time since I felt like this.”
“You don’t need to. Let’s talk. What do you think about us?”
Now, this is a red flag. I had thought I was signing up for a quick fix. Now there is a relationship headed for marriage, right on my face. One thing I know for sure is that I doubt 100% if I want to get involved in this business. You see, nobody knows where I live. You don’t want someone loitering around the house when you are researching and writing. Everybody else is a nuisance.
I tell her that my wife is coming home from the countryside the next day in the morning. She is pissed off, like really pissed off.
“I didn’t mean to use you. I know it appears like that but that was not the intention,” I tried to apologize.
“You used who,” she asked, angrily. “Look at you, saying the word ‘use’. You did not use anybody. You are so tiny down there you could go with a rat but it wouldn’t notice.”
That hurt me a little, but it is not my fault… Back to writing.
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