zero hour

the writer prt II

A Rave.
Lasers, thumping base, undulating bodies everywhere.
Britt just stood there, motionless.

She stood out.She was tall. She was not dancing.Britt the supermodel, playwrite, actress, and net-media celebrity.

She was the woman who had left the writer in the state we found in him in at the beginning of our tale...

Britt the lover.
Britt the betrayer.
Britt the bored one.
Britt the run-a-way.

With a final look around at the dancing people surrounding her, and a snarky swish of the hips, she stalked off the dance floor with that commanding grace and momentum that parted the undulating crowd of bodies for her. She never once looked at anyone in her way, she never once faltered. The bodies just parted like the red sea.

[Cut to the back seat of her compact limo]

City lights reflecting on her tinted windows.

She had been out jet-setting. Revisiting old haunts, and nostalgic hunting grounds.She'd been partying in Rome, Tokyo, and Deli (with many points beyond each capital with each visit), just to name a few places. She had been all over the world.

She had been ignoring the memory of him. Of their time together.

It's amazing how quickly four months can fly by, each week feeling like a long day, each day a busy hour. Britt was used to this part... the leaving them behind without a second though. It was part of the cycle of men in her life. Seduce them, claim them, tame them, ruin and reject them. This was the cycle of usefulness in men, as her mother had taught her.

She was what was often described as a Man Eater. A destroyer of men's souls. A woman scorned by one man, and out for payback from all men. She rarely kept them around for much longer than 9 months. She typically disposed of them suddenly, and without any explanation.

He had been different.... for some reason.

And ignoring him now was becoming increasingly much more difficult than she had anticipated.She kept seeing him.Everywhere, his face.Like in 'Being John Malchavich'

She would spot him in her periphery vision....she would see his face on some other man's body. Or his eyes, or his chin, or his nose... on other men's faces.

Hearing his voice emanating from other men's throats.Smelling his unique scent lingering in the air.She knew it was just her mind playing tricks on her.But it was starting to really get to her.It seemed to be happening more and more.
As she exits the limo, the valet holding her door open looked like him.
The door-man, he looked like him.

On her way through the main dining hall to her private booth, deep in the back of the restaurant where she always had dinner when she was in town... Everyone usually pauses their small talk, stops eating, and watches her make the long walk all the way to the coveted Red Velvet enshrined booth. Tonight, hardly anyone stopped to gaze upon her. She wasn't being herself at all. She felt faint... bordering on nausea. During her long slow, slightly wobbly walk to the back, she could have sworn that she saw 4 or 5 men who looked just like him at first glance, and then suddenly, clearly, and painfully, didn't look like him at all.

She had walked into the Rue Anglais as though she had never been there before. (It should be mentioned here that she owns this French/English fusion cuisine eatery. She owns it discreetly, through shell corporations. This little-known fact was also sort of an "open secret", which ensured that her service here was always impeccable) She had entered her own little culinary kingdom so quietly, so somberly, so without her usual vivacious mirth and over the top diva egotism, that Master Concierge AND the Head Waiter totally failed to recognize her!