Athena
The sun glistened in the waves of the bay; spring had turned into early summer. The dock was filled with waxed and freshly polished boats, and there was a faint smell of tar and gasoline from someone refuelling. The atmosphere at the restaurant by the pier was full of scantily clad guests, decent but lightly dressed. In total there were about fifteen tables, all of them not only occupied but in many cases overcrowded. I had reserved a table for two, for me and my girlfriend. I was sitting alone at the table, a beer in front of me. The intention had been for my girlfriend to come by car, while I had come by boat.
I was full of energy and plans for what we were going to do when I cast off from the jetty on the island where I have a cottage. I had only had time to cruise a bit out on the sea when my phone had been ringing. Annie had explained that she was not going to come, she had met someone else. Then she had poured out what a bad lover I was and how difficult it was for me to satisfy her, something I had never noticed. On the contrary, she used to have multiple orgasms when we made love - or had that just been fake? Her new love, she had said, gave her a satisfaction that she had previously only been able to dream of. When I finally had a chance to say something, I wondered who this amazing new lover was.
"Yes... well, yes it's a person... she's a bit older..." she stammered out.
"Her and a bit older! Is it a woman you have met?"
"Yes, we met at a reception at the French Embassy. You know I was invited to meet that writer..."
"Yes, and there you met a woman who seduced you?"
"Well, that's one way of putting it, or we seduced each other. It was she... she was the writer."
How could I, a "young man", compete with an older female French writer, who was, is, everything I am not! We had ended the conversation at the same time as the cloudless sky had drooped down over me. What could I do? Tears were streaming down my cheeks, I just kept driving, not knowing where or how. Suddenly I was at the restaurant, mooring the boat. With faltering steps, I walked to the restaurant, said my name and was shown to my table. I had stammered out that I was going to be alone, but still wanted to eat.
All around me were happy people, beaming with the sun. No one cared or looked at me. The best way to be alone, I thought, was to be alone among many people; everyone is busy doing their own thing, not seeing the solitary one. Someone, I don't know who, had said that if you want to hide, it's best in a crowd. I was well hidden at my table.
"May I start with a beer. Do you have some sheets of paper and a pen I can borrow. And the menu, please."
The waiter had left and returned after a short while with my beer, papers and pen. As I thought I had a date, which I hoped would have resulted in a great weekend, I hadn't brought my iPad, which I otherwise always carried with me. I love writing, mostly short stories. This time I really wanted to write, needed to put down in writing what came rolling up in my miserable brain. Reality in the form of emotions paired with fantasy. I envisioned a Greek god saga, with tragedy and romance. Although, to be honest, it was going to be more sex than tragedy.
My surroundings disappeared as I put pen to paper and started writing. The pen rasped against the paper and words joined words, page to page. Suddenly, the surroundings made themselves known, not by new sounds, but by the silence that fell over the restaurant when the buzz had died down. I looked up, what was going on? A mahogany boat, a Riva, one of the most beautiful boats ever built, was gliding towards the dock. The sun glinted off the highly polished mahogany, the V8 engine, or was it engines, rumbled quietly as it slid in, seemingly without any corrections, and settled into a space only slightly larger than the boat. A woman moored the boat with ease, turned off the engine and came up to the restaurant. There probably wasn't a man who didn't look her over from head to toe and up again. Many women too. She was dressed in a light summer dress with bare shoulders, just two straps holding the dress up, helped greatly by her bust. She was a brunette with medium-length hair, a little curly, curled inwards. It was impossible to tell that she had been out at sea; not a hair was out of place. She was a little brownish in complexion, either a mixture from slightly more southern regions or a good tan. She was an embodiment of Sandro Botticelli's Birth of Venus, floating ashore on a seashell. But she was even more enchanting in that she wore a dress that both concealed and accentuated all her feminine curves.
She made an entrance, everybody in the restaurant noticed her and followed her with their eyes. Everyone was wondering who she was meeting, where she would sit down.
"Oh, Madame Athena," said the maître d' who had arrived. "Welcome."
