The Ditches

Chapter Four

I lean over the balcony and breathe in, this isn't the smog filled, inner-city air I'm used to. Freshness hangs around me and silence too, but for the calls of nature. Here the gentle breeze whistles through the trees, it's not drowned by the constant hum of traffic. Here the birds sing sweetly, and forage in the grass for food. These are not the wide winged, squawking birds of the capital, that rummage through bins and send rubbish scattering down the street. Fuck me, I miss the capital.

Trees line the horizon, but closer are manicured gardens with a shock of brightly coloured flowers. And beneath my balcony, a circular sparkling pool. How many pools does one home need?

A view of paradise and I have the room to match. I walk inside. A four-poster bed, for the entra who doesn't sleep. A TV embedded into the wall, set between two doors. I flick it on and lazily watch the opening credits to a film I've seen too many times. Juran Cadole parades topless across the screen. Men don't interest me, but even I can tell he is one attractive bastard.

My reflection from the mirror opposite catches my attention. Fuck, I look rough. Vomit stained and wild hair. Why haven't I showered yet? I pick a door and discover the bathroom. The mirror in here is even less forgiving. Every little scar shows under the harsh white light and as I strip, the tiled floor sends a shiver through my body.

Hot water gushes from the shower. My hair tames under the heavy flow, the soap lathers, bubbling gleefully, as I rub it over my body. Hara flashes in my mind. Images from the previous night race through my head. Her dress dropping to the floor. Her breasts pushed together in a strapless bra. Her ass as she walked away from me.

I lean against the tiled wall, releasing a shaky breath. Hot water flows over my body and turns me a deeper shade of grey. My hand inches, timidly, down my abdomen as I hold tight the image of Hara.

But ...

I growl, angry. My hand pauses. There's always a fucking 'but'. What this time?

Hara wasn't interested in you. Hara didn't want to invite you back to her house. She didn't want to kiss you. She didn't want you to see her semi-naked. She absolutely didn't want to see your ugly ass, and she didn't want to fuck you.

Oh yeah. My hand drops. Good point. The voice in my head is the equivalent to an ice-cold dunking.

I rinse the soap from my body and hair and step out from under the water. Ramet from the mirror stares at me. "You're such a fucking disappointment." Yeah, I know. From a glass fronted cabinet set into the wall, I retrieve a towel, wrap it around my body and leave the bathroom.

The film plays in the background as I skim the room with my eyes. Juran Cadole smooth talks a woman. I'm good at that part. There isn't a wardrobe. There are no drawers. Just a bed, an armchair and footstool. Where the fuck are my clothes? Whyan, the prick, "You have everything you need."

I march past the TV as Juran kisses his co-star, he's makes it look so easy. He's not even drunk. The other door swings open in my frustrated hands. Ahhh, okay. Whyan, you're forgiven.

Clothes wrap around the room. They're not what I'd usually go for, dresses, no thank you. But they don't smell like vomit either. I select a pair of black trousers and a white t-shirt with a pearlescent coating and a tiny pocket that's no good to anyone.

There's underwear too, I rifle through getting increasingly exasperated. It's the sort I like to see on a woman, but not on myself. I slam the draw shut. Someone must have been having a good laugh when they ordered all this shit. Yeah, let's get the disfigured entra into something pretty. Ha ha ha.

I stand in front of a full-length mirror. I can't wear these clothes. The neckline on the t-shirt dips too low, exposing far too much cleavage. The trousers, oh, they're fine, comfy too. But the underwear, I'd rather go without. How do other women put up with this? I yank open another drawer and breathe a sigh of relief. This is more my speed.