While the Word Went Round
For the past twenty years of her life, all she understood was the practical language of sex; not the philosophical dialect of love which was too emotional for her often fatigued psyche to accommodate. This was why she hated even the modern English translation of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet; and loved the motion picture depiction of the 1912 sea voyage catastrophe, Titanic. Why then were this man’s words so profound in her mind?
“The echo of your name has become the pitiless thud of my heart-beat. When I try to put my feelings to sleep and to convince myself that you’re just a business woman seeking to solve your monetary problems with proceeds from your sale of sex, my heart tells me you’re different. And that just as there are reasons behind every action, so exists emotions behind every reason. Lateefa, for the sake of posterity, please vacate this trade and let us together redefine the texture of this void that we call life.”
She smiled demurely to the echo of the last line in her subconscious. How did she even meet this man? Oh yes, she remembered now. He had hurriedly entered the bar that day and had begun to tap his fingers on the counter restlessly. She was sitting cross-legged a few yards to the left in the Liquor Assignation, waiting patiently for her most frequent client, Damian, Esq.
“Good question, gentleman; almost every alcoholic drink on this planet is on offer. This is the liquor section of Blue-Moon Inn. But that is not all, I am also on the menu,” she had said spinning semi-circularly to display her luscious physique.
“Come with me then.” She had led him to her suite and treated him to some steamy noodles, soufflé and some banana. The man had become sleepy. She had stripped off his garments and had massaged his entire torso, his manhood inclusive. And on his third ejaculation, he was snoring away in deep sleep. When he had awoken some three hours later, she had given him a bill of some sixteen thousand Hiyos (or one hundred and ten dollars, whichever was available). The man had smiled confidently, slid back into his clothes and shoes and then said:
He had taken her to where he had parked his car just outside the inn. He had opened the front passenger door for her and she had entered. Then she had looked behind her in the Toyota Sedan 2011 model. On its seats were volumes of holy books with the inscription NOT TO BE SOLD on all the copies whose frontal hard covers she could see.
At 9:00pm that day, while she walked Damian to his car and bade him good night, the Sedan had wheeled into the inn’s garage. She had waited for Damian to drive out of sight and then had strolled to the Sedan. Its driver had gotten out with a stationery file in his hand.
“Tomorrow morning you’ll have it double-fold. Good night,” the man had said and walked away. She never saw or heard from him again until two weeks had passed. When he had come this third time, he had come with a ring asking her to marry him and saying those words that had banished sleep from her soul.
Oh marriage! What was it anyway? A prison yard of war veterans, who often simulate their military skills on one another’s body parts? A refuge camp of cash-strapped celebrities? A resort of lazy women? Or a baby making company? She earned not less than one thousand five hundred dollars a week. Would he be giving that to her while she lived with him as his wife? That was to her in great doubt. Well perhaps she could give him a chance. After all, there was always a bridge, not necessarily visible, across a sea. But not yet. He will be her client for at least half a year and pay for every ejaculation as charged. Then and only then would she guarantee her future years in his home.