Next, the come-on."Hey baby, what are you doing Saturday morning?" I asked on the phone, knowing that she would be willing to do anything I told her to do."Sir, you know my time is yours." Such a good girl. So unwittingly willing to step into my trap. Our discussion of this particular scene had been intermittent. I knew she wanted it, she knew I wanted it. But the details never made themselves apparent in our post debauchery pillow talk.Our conversation wrapped itself up as it usually does, she telling me how deeply she desired my attentions, me telling her "Soon, my good girl. Soon."Saturday morning, and our usual haunt - a quaint little Victorian with gingerbread trim, now a coffee shop and book store favored by hunched over introspects, noses deeply buried in volumes they were too "impoverished" to purchase, yet a $4.00 espresso sat cooling on the table before them. I would never understand people's slavery to image, yet my fascination with the human subject brought me back to this. ’Sometimes, the voice was tipsy. Swollen with fermented pride and pissed away frustrations. She was lucky then. Mead dulled the mind, and slowed one’s reflexes, making it easy to escape.She continued to scratch the wood, more intensely now. She didn’t notice, but her hands were beginning to draw upon the fire, her fingers sparkling with flames, drawing red tears of sap from the oak, her hands now autonomous.Today the voice was sober. And the voice was coming closer.‘We don’t have long, Jean. Haven’t you missed me?’Suddenly, the voice was right next to her. It grabbed her neck with chunky, gristled hands and shoved her against the cabin wall. The voice opened its mouth, and bared its teeth, yellow and rotten, with the brutal odour of desire pulsating with heavy breathing.Jean wanted to scream, but the voice had its hand on her mouth, and the other somewhere else. Words could not express her distress. Her hand still gripped the ochre wood, now glowing red hot in her right hand, listless.
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