Wednesday, November 19, 2014

It's 8 O'Clock on a Saturday

She is sitting perpendicular to a blue and white chequered couch. Lights dimmed to save electricity and a Japanese lamp emanating an orange glow.  Her back straight, her knees forward. Her hands are placed between her knees in a prayer like pose. She's staring at the yellowed walls and contemplating renovation, before her vision's blurred by tears.

The television's on. Some accented quasi-cook banging on about how emotional he is about food. All she thinks about is how emotional she is about 'him'.

He's far away. He's out of sight and she's out of his mind, but all she thinks about is him. The wannabe starlets that he's flirting with, wanting. All she wants is him. She envies the life he's living. Bright lights, beautiful women, charismatic men. Beautiful people, styled, made up, Photoshopped profile pics on Facebook. The ego and falsity of it all makes her feel ill. It's a tinsel-tinted life yet still, she wants it. She wants to be close to it, part of it. A little escapism from the boredom of the mundane 9-5 that rules her existence.

A dog scratches at the sliding door begging to be let in before lobbing on the bed.

"What a life!" she thinks.

To be supported, cared for, fed, vet checked and pampered.  Oh to be like such a beast, oblivious to the complexities of the human condition, the power-plays, the tit for tat 'love you one day, hate you the next' rhetoric that she receives from him.  The animal leaps heartily onto cushions designed for her and his heavenly heads, sex, closeness. The dog has no concept of such things and dishevels them into mountains of plump chaos.

 "I want to be a dog!" She articulates as the TV chef prepares pretentious food involving goat's cheese and rocket. Her stomach growls. She's just seen him devour a steak on Skype.

 "Fuck you," she thinks.  "If food really does lead to a man's heart, I'd have him in my bed."

Sadly she knows it takes more, much more - looks, youth. Yep it's all about the body and skin for him.

She's dwelling on his existence, rehashing fond memories, forgetting how cruel he can be with his emotional bullying. She wants to be the little black dress at his side when he's receiving accolades for his work. She wants to be the core of his universe while he struggles to make a living. Ease his frustrations, cater to his needs.

Her life is so dull by comparison. Living in office hell, pandering to people who don't  know her or care enough to ask. 'Print this, book that'. Words spat out by patronising patriarchs who care nothing for her or her situation. She's had it. The assumptions about who she is, what she represents. They know nothing. They don't know about the miscarriage, the premature loss of a husband, the murdered mother, the cancer ridden father. They have no idea about the longing for a man she can never have or the stupidity of her financial choices.  He knows her. He knows her inside out and upside down. He uses it against her, manipulating her emotions with his words and ignorance, yet she tolerates it. He knows everything about her.

She stares down at her hands. They are still pressed prayer-like between her knees.

"Bulky knees," she declares to a silent audience.  "Damn genes."

Tears momentarily stemmed, only by the gnawing hunger that makes her order Chinese food on a credit card way passed its limit.

"Is this it? Is this what it's all about?" The dog raises it's head momentarily, too lazy to move from it's den among the pillows.

Perhaps he will come for Christmas. Perhaps they'll still see each other in a few months time. But she's not banking on it. He's pushed too hard, to often and it's wearing her down. Still, she'll wear the Zaggora Flares, smooth unctions to preserve her ageing skin, hit the treadmill and smile when he Skypes as if everything is fine.

Tomorrow she'll start renovating. Her body, her house, her heart, her life.

"Really need to stop drinking," she thinks, as she skulls the last drop of a cheap Semillon.