I don’t do one night stands. I am not a Sarong Party Girl.
There will always be a story of some sort that never breaks, even if an emphatic exclamation still lingers like tasteless icing after your marriage to a better woman, a good woman you needn’t have to worry for, one who would swallow with ease, every lie you tell her. A woman who will bear your children, a story you created with swads of hard cash. Most women buy into these stories, not realising they’ve literally sold themselves to Old Nick, himself, pimping her into a spiritless yet domesticated whore.
Memories are lies, the bricks you build your Tower of Babel, breadcrumbs to remind you of something, of how perhaps the masquerade veils your intentions … the innocents aren’t naive, they don’t indulge in wicked games adults often crow.
Women ought, at least earn something but not from the husband.
She is there to please him alone, in bed, or the kitchen island whichever is more reasonable — the island is stimulating if you’re a size minus zero … there are bound to be very sharp knives somewhere. Their children is the responsibility of the governess, the husband, and the school, and in certain countries, the State, as future consumer cattle.
We met at the corner café that day.
I remember it well … I wasn’t looking for an adventure. I just had a bout of mischance with a gwailo wanted by the Immigration for overstaying, and somehow managed to deceived Richard and I. I didn’t know it then.
I had proposed a concept print media, and that imbecile took advantage of our irrationalness.
Double Eight once told me that Forty-four was a gigolo. I oftentimes overlook what others bitch about others. They could be lovers and me caught in-between would be anything but pleasant for either. I had hated Forty-four the first time we were introduced. Good looking men can be very deceiving.
Well maybe not Daniel Craig, or Jason Statham — these are Gods.
This is why I do Champagnes, and Red Wines. One never gets tipsy with these. With most men yes, and once they burst your bubbles, you’re left with a hideous package, or maybe if you’re not careful some meat.
I should have warned Richard about Forty-four being that, and the fact that I didn’t trust good looking men. Well, Daniel and Jason are something else. The idea of coquetries were designed specifically for these men.
Richard wouldn’t have believed me anyway. The reason they’re saints is that … something to do with benefits and clergy. We needed another four hundred odd to fully launch. We already had a Foreign Commission vouching an ad space in the inaugural issue, like as if that was enough. We needed at least another seven major players in.
My business proposal was beyond enticing. It would bridge two worlds … the East, and the West. Between Richard and I we had raised close to two hundred odd thousand dollars to jump start the startup.
“We need to work out the return percentage” Forty-four said, frowning hard.
“Everything is printed in the business plan, and Richard has agreed” I said assertively. I dislike the idea of Forty-four trying to inch into the returns when we’ve yet to get our license to publish. It’d take about three months to get that and another three to setup employee relations etcetera. Everything was in place from ad sales projection to limited edition sales, plus online subscriptions to a plethora of other marketing campaigns.
Richard offered us some English pudding.
I declined. I wouldn’t have minded Daniel, or Jason.
“I’ll get us the remaining four hundred odd” Forty-four added, pushing the plate of pudding away from him.
Richard passed on weeks thereafter he was hospitalised due to cancer. I was stricken. I had spoken to him a few hours the previous evening, and the next day was informed of his passing. Forty-four was rumoured to have been arrested and deported for good.
I was left empty and heartbroken and I wasn’t even in love, nor did I sleep with Forty-four who was adamant I was a dyke, just because I had refused his advances.