Carte Blanche
It was his first time at her place. She shared an apartment with another girl, who ignored him completely by staying busy on a phone in the other room. The elevator was jammed. They had to walk up five floors to find out that she did not have the keys to the apartment. He walked down to the Concierge to get the spare and up again and by the time he did, the door was opened, the elevator had started working again and out emerged from it the room mate.
She did not bother to introduce him to her and the girl seemed to be stuck to the phone anyway to take offense. She disappeared into her room, whispering strained threats into her phone, leaving the rest of the apartment to the two of them.
It was small and like most girls apartment’s messy. At least like the apartments of the ones who seem to be inclined to have him over. That was a thought. That was one of the key jokes to the understanding of how the gods who controlled his life functioned. He looked around for a place to sit, found a rug on the floor and tried to read a newspaper. The newspaper distracted him easily with photographs in exaggerated newsprint colors of Kim, Mellie, Ray and many more starlets. It spoke of them as if they were famous. He felt old and left out for he did not seem to know of any. He could only stare at their full bodies and tanned skin and feel terrible about himself. He also managed to feel guilty that he was indulging in such lechery in a girl’s apartment. He kept the paper back on the floor, feigning disinterest, although there was no one around to notice it. She was in her room, locked in, ‘washing up’.
She came out, in a loose shirt and jeans, smelling of watermelons, with a warm smile.
Would you like some tea, she asked him.
Yes please, he said.
What kind?
Would you have green tea?
I do. I love Green Tea.
He smiled back at her thankfully and asked her if he could use the washroom.
You can use mine, she told him, if you promise not to notice how filthy my room is.
Her room was clean and tidy, with some clothes strewn around on the bed. It was dark though and did not seem to get too much sunlight. He wasn’t sure if he was being watched through the crack in the door and went straight into the washroom. The mirror shelf was crammed with small bottles of hair moisturizing cream from some hotel. He was surprised to notice, that there wasn’t much else in the lotions and creams range, something he would have expected in any woman’s washroom. Just the basic shampoo bottle, soap, toothbrush, cream…he realized he was spying around needlessly and exited as soon as his business was done.
She had the tea ready. There were two cups on the table, each carrying the Manchester United Logo. She was sipping on hers with great contentment. He took his. She had added sugar to his green tea. Should he tell her that he liked green tea without sugar? Should he politely sip and finish it off, gulp down the sickly sweet green fluid smelling of lemon and honey? Should he wait for her to ask him whether he liked it and tell her of his preference? That seemed the right thing to do.
She never asked though and started talking to him about her work. She worked as tech-support in a technology firm. Two sentences down, he was lost in a stream of jargon. Her work seemed very complicated. Even the way they worked was quite a maze for him as words like groups and teams and protocols and work meets filled the space.
So what do you think I should do, she asked him.
That confused him. He hadn’t paid too much attention. She looked tired and she hadn’t narrated the story to him with great enthusiasm. So he took the risk
You need a break.
That seemed to please her immensely.
I would like to go to South Africa, in May. They have beautiful cities there and mountains and such a vibrant night life.
They do?
Yes. They have fabulous night clubs and strip clubs in some city.
Strip Clubs?
Yes. They have some super hot men and women there and there are people from every where. It’s a crazy scene there.
There was something strange about this conversation. She smiled with almost open innocence and genuine enthusiasm as she elaborated on her image of a crowded strip bar in South Africa . It wasn’t very pornographic-the imagery- but it sounded strange to hear a woman he had know for all of twenty days spout sentences that contained references to items of male and female underwear and occasionally, the anatomy.
What should he do now? Should he interrupt this steady flow? She was now detailing the dance moves of a lap dancer and the experience of a male friend in London . Her fingers twirled on the table and head swung slightly in ways as she tried illustrating them. This was a funny story, he presumed, because she laughed every time she mentioned the guy whose lap was being danced upon in the recounted scene. Maybe he was her ex-boyfriend?
He closed her out and inspected the drop of green tea in the bottom of the mug. He tried memorizing the color of the table top and the rug beneath his feet. He wondered if his watch was running fifteen minutes faster, again. Her laughter snapped him back.
You are blushing, she peeled laughter.
He wanted to refuse. He liked the way she laughed and hence smiled.
So when do you go to the strip bars of Cape Town ?
Soon, she said and then looked extremely sad.
I have no money to go there, she said. I never save much and it’s all gone now. I am broke.
Do you really want to go there?
I sometimes wish I can just go there and never come back
What would you do there?
She looked startled by his stupidity, Become a lap dancer of course! Duh!
He hated that word. He hated the sound of it and the way girls four years younger than him used it. It was an alienating sound reeking of youthful arrogance, beauty, modernity, technology; everything that had passed him by without waiting to take him on board.
So how much would it cost you to get there?
I don’t know. May be around an eighty thousand…would you lend me some? Twenty thousand? I am sorry for asking you so shamelessly. I will repay you in a month’s time.
What had he got himself into? What would this favor earn him? Love? Could he afford so much? Even if he could, would she actually return it? Or would it just be forgotten with her disappearance? How much was she worth? The risk of money not coming back but the bonus of earning some love, adding a point to his starved life… at the cost of a dent he could afford to paint over?
I don’t know I will have to check, he said. I would love to help of course…You will come back though some time right? Ha ha!
That laughter was faked, badly. It sounded dry like a throat clearing cough.
She smiled warmly though. Her lips stretched across her face like a pretty version of the Cheshire Cat.
I understand. It’s so nice of you to even consider it. You hardly know me right?
That’s nothing. Do write to me when you get to Cape Town . It would be quite cool to receive e-mails from a lap dancer, I think
She laughed.
I will send you postcards, too.
Even better!
He returned home soon. He never really bothered to go out of his way to meet her afterwards. He received a mail from her once and she forwarded messages wishing happy festivals for a while.
He never found out if she ever went to South Africa . He had missed his chance in life to receive a post card from a lap dancer.
