Simon stared at the number on his cell phone, chastising himself. "I shouldn't do this anymore," he murmured to no one.
The gap between his index finger and the call button was only paper thin as his hovering hand slightly fidgeted. "I can't do it."
Simon flipped his phone closed, proud of his resistance. He continued to get ready for work. It was Monday, which meant he wore his navy blue dress shirt and black pants. After he tied his red tie in the classic Windsor knot, he glanced at his phone. It seemed his soul was yearning to make the phone call to Miescha, the love of his life. His brain, ever his soul's antagonist, reasoned she's only doing her job. "I need to put an end to this."
'I don't even have to tell her. All it takes is not calling. Not dialing those familiar digits. Well, maybe just one last time,' but Simon said that before, too. He grabbed his phone and resigned himself to his fate. Shakily, he hit the call button. It always made him nervous to call her. He'd seen her every Monday for the past eight months. He knew he loved her and it scared him.
Miescha sat curled on the love seat, a sheer slip of candy apple red for a nightgown, and watched with vacant eyes as a garden spider wove its web outside her window. Minutes ticked by, steady seconds clicking in her head, and she pursed her pretty pink lips. Every Monday, he called later and later -- soon, he'd be gone. But what did she expect? A good guy like him wouldn't stick to a whore for long. It was a miracle that he scheduled to see her every week as it was.
Maybe Simon took pity on her. She knew he did: she could see it in his eyes as he kissed the bruises left by rough, inconsiderate clients. No other man touched her like he did, and at twenty-seven, still working the streets... she was getting old to be a call girl any more. Most of her favorite musicians were gone by this age, and her friends were trying to forget their old life, settling down into marriages with abusive husbands that reminded them of former clients. At the big three-oh, she'd have to quit. She would remind the men too much of their dowdy wives, no matter what tricks she played with their bodies. She shivered. 'Call me, Simon, just one more time, indulge your whore.'
Pinching the bridge of her nose between painted nails, Miescha sighed and got up, unable to deal with the melancholy feeling. If he didn't come, she'd find someone else for the spot. Besides, why the fuck was she getting up so early in the God damn morning to fuck? 'Because it's what pays the bills. Because you sell your body.' Angry with herself, she went to the mirror with shaky hands to apply her make up: the thick mascara and eyeliner for her classic cat eyes, a little bit of blush on her cheeks, and gloss on her full lips. In a last minute effort to fill waiting time, she tousled her curls, and was pleased at the sexy result. She felt silly.
When the phone rang, Miescha jumped, but remembered to walk slowly, to pick up on the third ring -- 'don't appear eager, ever' -- and answered in her quiet, genteel voice, "Hello Simon."
"Good morning," Simon shyly responded. "Sorry for calling so late today, I lost track of time," he lied. He had given the same excuse to her the past five weeks. "I know it's only in twenty minutes, but is the usual 6:30 am still okay?" Simon hated lying to her but he didn't want Miescha to know he was debating with himself about not seeing her. Maybe she had an inkling of his inner turmoil as his calls kept coming later and later despite their meeting at the same time every Monday. Any later would disrupt his routine.
Miescha held the phone from her lips momentarily as she breathed in relief, but returned quickly to keep the pause nearly inconspicuous. She tried to sound nonchalant about it when she spoke again, "If you can still make it, you're always welcome, doll."
"I assume the same motel, what room number?" The first month Simon had to wait until he arrived at the motel and then call again for the room number. Since then, Miescha gave him the room number right away.
"306, love. And don't be late. I have a surprise for you," she hinted with a coy, playful tone.
"Really?" Simon was briefly stunned by Miescha's admission before continuing in his usual inauspicious voice. "Okay, I'll be there shortly."
Standing at the appointed door, Simon nervously looked in each direction. He always feared the police might be nearby and suspect what was going on. As he knocked on the door, he remembered every encounter with her. The first time he walked into the motel room, a dozen stargazers in hand, her beauty amazed him. Miescha was reminiscent to a fifties pin-up girl with the generously curvy body, husky voice always an intimate whisper in his ear, and bedroom eyes that held his like there was no one else in the whole world that mattered, a true vision to behold. But what truly enchanted him was her soft demeanor. She somehow knew what he needed that day, and it wasn't sex. They just lay down in the nude with her holding him.
Every meeting after, Simon brought her various gifts. Today it was an expensive bottle of her favorite fragrance, something he noted was on her nightstand during a previous engagement. In return he was treated with kids' gloves. Miescha had sex with him, of course, but it wasn't rough. It was gentle and tender. What really made Simon feel special, happened on his birthday. He let it slip to Miescha the week before that his own annual personal holiday was the following week. When he arrived, she gave him a red tie. It replaced his black one and he wore it every day in remembrance. No one had ever given him a gift other than his parents. He often wondered why she randomly had one. Was it left by another one of her clients? He dismissed that thought immediately, preferring to believe she just cared. Simon fell head over heels for Miescha that day. If only things were different. If only he met her at work or a bar or anywhere else other than this. The door opened and he suddenly felt dry in the mouth.
Miescha's eyes twinkled with the smile that curved her lips at the sight of the silk tie she'd given him on his birthday, remembering the special shopping trip she'd taken to Dayson's and the way she'd debated on the color for nearly an hour, bewildered by the outstanding, snobbish citizens surrounding her. She held out her hand for his, murmuring for him to come inside. But as she noticed the standoffish way he held himself, the nervous energy that caused him to twitch, her smile faltered. Miescha leaned up to kiss his cheek, her arms slipping up around his neck, and she pressed her warm body against his.
"You're cold," she mumbled against his neck, "Let me warm you up. The gifts can wait. I want you, Simon."
