"I'm thinking of taking a lover."
The words rose in the air between us like plumes of cigarette smoke. It's too bad, really, now that sort of cliché – manufactured foreplay - has succumbed with government law. I wasn't ashamed of who I was, of cigarettes, of rebellion, what and who my desires were. On this damp London night myself and this young nymph had met at this new art exhibition opening – very exclusive, of course.
We had bumped in front of some strange bronze structure and we ended up talking about everything we could think of. Something between us had snapped and we had to bond together, figure each other out. Somehow, I could understand something special about her, but let's not be hasty, shall we? We made a devastating connection. Holding a small glass of '86 merlot I felt sexy in my best silken number – my calf length, v-neck purple dress with silver sequin detailing, and my new purple lipstick. I was facing a 23 year old nymph by the name of Beauty. Wearing a simple cream linen skirt suit, she had this gorgeous auburn hair that was short and urchin-like that curled around her ears, with wide green eyes, porcelain skin and soft, full lips. She wasn't very tall – only 5"5 – and was painfully shy. I waited for her response.
"Ooh, very glamorous is it not?" She giggled and curled her slim fingers around the stem of her wineglass, flexing them slightly. I watched her with hunger. "Do you, erm, have anybody in mind? I mean surely you must understand all of the work involved, hmm? Finding a lover, finding your setting, a place, interests." She looked at me. Straight in the eyes. She smiled, but it didn't completely reach her eyes, off dancing somewhere else. A proposition.
"Well, what makes a lover? The kind of black and white French movie perfection where everyone is tall and slender and, like – you, basically?" She laughs, but I barely hear her. This civilised, post-9/11 world was dissipating very quickly...
"Where the only music is the sound of those last desperate, almost tragic gasps before..." She was going to continue if her damn date hadn't turned up. I had deduced he's some sort of geek-chic friend who studied art history and is just realising how pointless it all was. Anyways, he was a twitchy kinda guy. The kinda guy I couldn't ignore but I lost no sleep over him. At least Beauty looked uncomfortable. She'd send him away no problem.
"What is it Simon?" She snapped. This time, his right eye twitched. I grinned.
"Erm, I was wondering if you'd want to get out of here. You know, fob off the establishment types and all that." The thing was dressed in classic University Challenge attire – the monstrosity of square glasses, black trousers and bright green shoes. I almost wanted to help him, if only my mind wasn't so Beauty-fixated.
"No, I don't want to go anywhere. With you, I mean, you can leave. I'm talking here to..." She glanced askance with hopeful eyes.
"Marissa." I said. I don't think Twitch liked me that much, but his eyes held an appraising look in my direction. Before I could translate it he gave Beauty smirk that was far less than subtle, and slunk away into the crowd. No matter. I wasn't going to let whatever that was interrupt us, if she wasn't to. Yet she paused and it made me worry.
