"You want perfection. Perfection, perfection, perfection!"
Each angry, bitter word was punctuated by the slap of another article of clothing into her suitcase. Women never seem to arrive with suitcases, but they always leave with them. It's insidious. First a toothbrush left behind, then a hairdryer, and before you know it they need to pack a suitcase before leaving. But leaving she was. It was almost a shame, really. This one was a smouldering Mexican, all flashing eyes and warm moist lips. Ah, those lips! Now they were perfection. Even at this final stage of the mating dance, when I would normally not even bother to pretend an interest in the woman's recriminations, I could not take my eyes from those lips.
"You'll die an unhappy man. There's no such thing as the perfect woman!"
The lid of the suitcase slammed shut. Her heels clicked across the white marble floor. Her hand reached out, and knocked a crystal vase to the floor. The lift hummed. I was alone.
Alone. At last.
I ignored the crystal shards on the floor. The vase was an attractive one, but inexpensive. After countless repetitions of this scene, with countless women, I learnt that the only way to keep my treasures intact was to provide them with something convenient to break on the way out. It makes them feel as though they've had the last word. That's important to most women.
Ah, women.
The main thing about them is they come and they go. A week, or two. Sometimes three. The longest of them lasted six. Each one has something special about her, the curve of a thigh, the line of a wrist, and all beautiful. But none of them.
Perfect.
Savouring the silence, I poured myself a drink. Despite the constant parade of lady companions who made their way through my life, I loved my apartment most when I was alone. An eyrie far above the maddening crowds, a vast expanse of white rushing to embrace the plate glass walls that frame the untouchable emptiness above the city. None of the windows opened, of course, but the glass walls gave the illusion of openness. Of freedom. It was here, when I was alone, that my spirit soared and I created my masterpieces. But that night I did not turn towards my piano. I walked to the window.
Lights.
Flickered below me, across the tapestry of the city. Night was falling, and I could see the swarms of humanity moving from work to home, from one treadmill to another. To me, it was the stuff that music was made of. Fifteen million people live in this magical city by the sea. How many of them look up?
'There's no such thing as the perfect woman!"
The Mexican's words whispered in my head, as sibilant as a curse. She was wrong, of course. Fifteen million people. The perfect woman, my woman, was out there some where, waiting for me. I lifted my glass to the window.
"To you."
I spoke aloud. The acoustics in the room perfect, my voice as clear as a bell.
"After I have found you, I will take no other woman. Come to me."
I touched my glass to my lips. As I drank, I heard a soft sound. It was almost the sound of silk brushing against skin, almost the sound of the wind in the trees, almost the sound of a whispered promise on a summers night. Almost but not quite, it was gone before I was even sure I heard it.
Empty.
The spell was broken as I realised I'd finished my drink. Stepping over the crystal shards to refill my glass, I added aloud, "And come to me soon. I'm getting too old for these scenes."
***
It had been a most gratifying day. A meeting with my agent, confirming the schedule of my upcoming, sold out, tour. A meeting with my business manager, who rubbed his hands with glee as he gave me the latest sales figures on my recordings. CD's, DVD's, videos. The money was rolling in. My piano has made my fortune, but how I love the blessings of modern technology. None of the old masters had it this good. There was a spring in my step as I entered the bar. It had been a week since the Mexican had left, and material for my next recording had been flowing freely. I needed a reward. I deserved a reward.
I was on my second drink when she entered the bar. If it had been a movie, the room would have stilled, and all heads would have turned to drink her in. As it was, the seething pulse of the city at night still beat around her, the world kept turning, and the patrons kept drinking. She stood as beautiful and still as a statue in the doorway, only her sea green eyes moving as she searched the room. Her hair fell in glossy dark red curls around a pale face. She was a little taller than I usually liked, but it was certainly a promising beginning. Blind to all else, I lifted my glass absently to my lips and sipped. The ice in the glass rustled like silk, like leaves.
Then she saw me.
Our eyes locked, and the world turned over. Light and sound melded together for an impossible moment. Then the statue moved. Towards me. I had only seconds to think of a line before she was at my side. My mind went blank. I was nearly forty years old, and I had had my first woman at fourteen. Never once in all of those years had I been at a loss for words when it came to women. The suave looking stockbroker type on the bar stool next to me, stood, drink in hand, and wandered off through the crowd. Inexplicably, he looked straight through the beautiful woman who slipped onto his still warm stool. I finished my drink in one swift swallow. It did nothing to quell the desert landscape that had appeared in my mouth.
