Thursday, December 15, 2005

Memoirs of a Desperate Woman

So she walks into an anonymous bar that smells of Dunhill and Malboro Light and makes her way to the stool at one end. Here, screened by the large, thuggish Indian drunks, she gestures to the bartender. Gin on the rocks. She empties her glass in one motion, leans back and sighs. There is a slight easing of the painful knot in her belly. A few more ought to do the trick. She signals for another and the bartender nods impassively as he moves to get her drink. He's seen her type before.

Across the room, a man watches. He too has seen her type before and his nose quivers appreciatively. He notes her well-cut clothes and the gold card she proffers in payment. He notes the slight plumpness and he knows when he gets nearer, he will he able to smell her profound sadness. She'll do.

He buys her a drink. When she raises her glass in acknowledgement, he sidles over. Takes care not to touch her as they feel each other out with trite phrases. He lets her talk. Nods sympathetically like he's not heard it all before. Takes care to see her glass is always magically filled. With a little more firewater down her gullet she feels a wonderful lightening of spirit. He starts to appear attractive. Such a nice deep voice and so sympathetic. And still, practised as ever, he keeps his distance. Soon, she is touching him, a hand on the shoulder, now one on his knee. He refrains, managing to keep himself aloof but available, not an easy combination to achieve.

A month later, she's staking out a strange house because his car is parked outside. She followed him because she suspects. Sure enough, he emerges, looking satisfied, if sleepy, at about 4 in the morning. She revs up and they engage in a high-speed chase throughout the streets of Damansara. Her best friend, who has been dragged into this comedy against her will is screaming as the car careens wildly from side the side. Oblivious, she sails over the speed bumps like she's on some bad cop show.

He made the first move. She could have sworn he did. And he borrowed a tidy sum, more than she could afford to lend. There was some emergency, and it was only for one month, he had cashflow problems, he would pay her back first thing next month - it was now the 15th and he gets irritated whenever she brings up the subject. If money is not enough to keep a man faithful...

The smoke in the bar clears. She thanks him and stumbles out to her car, dropping her keys along the way. She shouldn't be driving anyway. All that gin. Chased with brandy. He catches her, picks up her keys and they smile at each other.

Sex in the car: it's uncomfortable but she's too drunk to care. It feels good to be touched again. Actually she's too drunk to feel, but you get the picture.

"A man wants me, a man wants me, a man wants me. Eat your heart out Simon, eat your heart out Tony, eat your heart out George, a man actually wants me!"

4 comments:

goldennib said...

Oh Jenn, so saddly you've captured this woman. Why is the touch of a man (sometimes any man) so important to us that we give up and give away so much of ourselves to get it?

Jenn said...

I think loving touch is a basic human need. It drives you to do stupid things and you're always sorry in the morning.

But that doesn't prevent today and today and today.

lemontree said...

loved the post jenn
and the slipping in of the 'slight plumpness' is the kind of detail that makes this ring so true
:)

Jenn said...

Haha slight plumpness, enough to apologise for your appearance and think that any man who wants to dump on you is doing you a huge favour.