(The first encounter, please comment and let me know what you think)
All Rights and a table at that restaurant Reserved
I was at a friend’s birthday party, a function room in the hotel her husband owned, married for financial gain, as you can imagine the hotel aimed at business clients in the bustling city now housed a party blaring out dub step and ABBA, the song choice wasn’t mine.
Anyway, one of the guests, who I didn’t know then to be Troy, wondered down and asked for the music to be turned down, fair enough to any person; any sober person, but I wasn’t sober, I had had four many tequilas, that’s right not too many, four many and confidence was oozing so much from my pores I could have bagged it and sold it.
“Excuse me!” I spat vaguely in his direction, but he mustn’t have heard me, I mean, he wouldn’t deliberately walk out knowing that a woman; slightly under the influence of alcohol, was calling out in his kind of direction a phrase which would usually be shouted out by a granny when she has farted and forgotten to adjust her hearing aid, announcing it to the whole bus line. No, he must have a hearing problem, so I followed him as he turned sharply on his heels and strutted into the lobby.
I remember the feeling of light on my eyes as I left the venue and entered the lobby, his scent left in the air, a mixture of Hugo, hormones and heat, my eyes squinted, heels kicked off and nose in the air; I felt like a hound dog, no scratch that, something more sexy, like a fox.
Yeah, I felt like a fox hunting down their prey, their rabbit. Lifting my already short dress even higher, showing way more than any reputable stripper would I ran down the hall, at full pelt, puffing and panting all the way, because let’s face it, it’s been a long time since I’ve ran like this, maybe cross country at school, even that’s pushing it.
Almost near him, the scent was getting stronger, crap; he’s about to go in the lift, I’ve got to stop him, I try to call out to him, but what can I say? It needs to be insulting so he’ll listen, or at least stop and stare, then I would be able to keep up with the bravado and continue to tell him what a party pooper he is, maybe not those exact words because let’s face it they aren’t really the hardest of words, I mean, you don’t see boxers uttering them before a fight.
I know, I’ll pick on his features, what are his features, I fight against the will to cower my head to aid my breathing, dark hair, he turns, green eyes, he’s tall, God please, just let one insult come to mind.
I got God’s answering machine.
He smiles at me, and it isn’t until my eyes come into focus, as I am closer now and can slow down, that I realise he wasn’t smiling at me, but at the motion of the ocean on my chest, filthy pervert. Okay, I’ll just say the first thing that comes into my head. “Oi, Hitler.” What the hell, he was nothing like Hitler, sure he wanted the music turned down but it wasn’t on the same scale as the holocaust; if I still had my shoe I would hit myself over the head with it.
“So you think I look like him.” He spoke, clearly taking pleasure in watching me squirm and run.
“No, I mean yes.” I say finally catching up to him.
“How?”
“How?” I panted between painful, laboured breathes.
“Yes Polly.”
“Ha, my names not Polly!” I say sticking a drunken finger towards his face.
“I meant Polly as in Parrot, because you just copied what I said, you know, Parrots, pretty Polly, pretty Polly” He speaks sarcastically, maybe if I wasn’t so drunk I would have confronted him on that, but at the word pretty, I am gone, he bats my finger out of his face.
“So you think I’m pretty?!” I say twirling my batted off finger in my hair. Maybe I was a little too harsh on him. I mean, if he thinks I’m pretty…
“No, I mean yes,” aww, he’s all flustered; “I mean I said pretty Polly.”
“Oh,” well, he could have lied, “so who is this Polly and how is she prettier than me?!” My head starts to cloud and I am aware of the alcohol acting as a swimming pool to my brain, not helped by the corridor run.
“I think you’ve had too much to drink don’t you.” He scolds.
I have this mechanism, this really bad mechanism that means when I get awkward I start to dance a little or sing to change that awkward energy, which explains why I start to sing. “Don’t you…Don’t you want me baby, don’t you want me oohhh.”
“I think you better go back to the party!”
“I was working as a waitress at a cocktail bar, that much is true.”
The lift door opens, he steps inside and presses the number, “Stop,” I shout, putting my hands on either elevator door; my head hanging like a deranged serial killer. “I came to tell you to stop dampening the party, it’s a birthday party,” he looks at his watch making me nervous, “and she can cry if she wants to, cry if she wants to, cry if she wants to, you would cry to if it happened to you.”
“Look, okay, I have a meeting tomorrow that says whether I get a raise or not, which means whether I can buy a house or not, which means whether I can move out of my…”
“Look honey, I just about don’t damn care.” Hiccup.
“Then if you don’t care why the hell are you running after me!?” He was getting angry now, a vein started to pop out of his forehead, and his pulse flickered in his neck. If he kept this up he may start turning green and his clothes would rip off…mmm…his clothes ripping off…maybe I would like to see him angry.
Or maybe not.
“O-kay,” I said warily.
He was serially stabbing the button now, I swear to god if the button could have talked it could have claimed sexual harassment, “Jesus, it’s a Friday night, let loose, man” MAN, who says ‘man’ oh my god I am becoming a hippy.
“’Let loose?!’ Just go back to the party, ‘Man’!” He held down the button, and then I started thinking about the button again, I started thinking how it will be touched for the rest of its life and how it would be poked by arseholes like this guy. And then I started thinking about sluts like ground floor which would be forever poked and how like 1st floor wouldn’t really be used because it would be way faster to walk up the stairs to floor one than wait for the lift, so it would be a spinster all its life. And then there’s the pent houses at the top, those buttons dedicate themselves to rich bastards but only get pressed once in a little while.
“Are you crying?” He asks me.
“No!” I lie between sobs so huge my whole body is shaking as staff begin to cautiously stare. “It’s just…life is so sad. I mean how successful you are; is just a reflection of how much you’ve been used.”
“Umm, are…do you?”
I lift my hands in desperation, staring at the elevator ceiling, as if the guy with all the answers was there, “W-” just before I can say anything I remember having my hands on the doors was actually keeping me upright.
I fall on my knees before my face connects with the floor.
I groan, then hear the movement of the doors closing that, guess what? My hands were holding open, note to self; hands are very useful and when holding onto something, don’t let go.
Before I passed out the last thing I remembered was thinking how firmly the elevator doors held my arse, better than any guy I’ve ever felt.
YOU ARE READING
Honestly Speaking
Tiểu Thuyết ChungAccording to the big book, God made woman, from the rib of a man. A rib, as in that place in between the heart and the groin of a man. Kinda says it all don’t you think.
