by Poppet
One of 'those' clients is actually on a mission to get my attention. He has come into the bank to meet me numerous times and doesn't know how to take ‘no’ for an answer. He is a tall Indian man with contrasting azure eyes. If Gary knew, he'd throw a FIT. Not just about me talking to other men–full stop– but to one who isn't snow white, I shudder to think of the repercussions.
Of all the days to pull a stunt on me, today is my cursed day.
Flowers arrive for me. From blue eyes: my Indian suitor who is, by the way, married and has a new-born.
I cannot function today. I don't react like someone should at receiving flowers. I do pluck up the courage to phone him and say thank you. He is adamant about taking me to lunch. Oh yes, he can sense the disease eating me from the inside out. My answer is no. My excuse, "I'm not feeling well today."
How do you answer, ‘What is wrong my darling?’– ‘Oh I'm just so horny that if Gary doesn't shag me soon, I may end up in an institution.’?
By evening, when everyone has left, I get up from my desk. I have sat there all day without moving. I have made as little eye contact with everyone as possible. And I need air! I grab my bag and my flowers and make my way to the staff door. I'm breaking the rule. I'm waiting outside.
This sets off alarm bells in Mr Security Guard, and he refuses to open the door. He grabs my elbow, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. You haven't been yourself today."
Finally, I look up at his eyes and feel deeply touched by his concern. It draws moisture into my eyes.
"I'm fine. Promise."
"Did he ...? You know you can talk to me if you're having problems right?"
Worry seeps through my weak legs. Great, now he thinks Gary is beating me or something. I have to stop this.
"I'm just not feeling well today. I swear, otherwise I'm fine."
He pauses, waiting for me to say more, giving me the opportunity to look for support. I don't need support. I need Gary.
He releases my elbow and opens the door. I smile, "Thanks."
I walk back to the steps, sit down and light a smoke. He's worried as all hell and opens the door and walks to me. He hands me a slip of paper. I glance at it as I take it. It's a phone number.
"If you need help, phone me."
Okay, now I'm all mushy and feel like I'm seriously going to cry. My lips tremor and my voice sounds shaky, "Thanks."
Please go inside, if Gary sees you I'm going to be in it DEEP.
I put the number into my bag and watch him walk away back behind the door. He doesn't take his eyes off me until I leave with Gary. I consider how impractical his dialling code has made him. I live in Rondebosch, he lives in Milnerton. He is nowhere near my side of the world.
I couldn't wait to see Gary. My anticipation had morphed my body back into an amoeba. I step into his capsule and the scowl paralyses me.
"Who the fuck gave you those?"
Gulp. "A client."
"Why? Does he want to fuck you?"
"No. It's just to say thank you for helping him with an issue." (What a lie.)
"Throw them away." He stops the car next to a trash bin.
"No!"
I never get flowers and don't particularly feel like giving these carnations up right now.
He gets out of the car, stalks around to my side and yanks open the S3's door. I struggle with him as he attempts to yank the flowers out of my hands. I'm not giving them up.
Big mistake. Now it's war.
He gets back in behind the wheel and glares at me, "Who is he?"
"A customer."
His expression conveys I'm retarded.
"WHAT. IS. HIS. NAME?"
I start quivering. I can't let Gary make shit with the clients. I'll get fired.
Whisper, "Mr Pillay."
"A FUCKING SAMOOSA GAVE THAT TO YOU?"
I nod.
"THROW THEM AWAY."
I shake my head. I'm too afraid to speak.
"Get out."
I stare at him, incredulous.
"I said GET OUT."
Wiping away tears, I get out of the vehicle with my bag and my flowers. I watch as Gary speeds away into a blinding sunset. I breathe with difficulty and become aware of the danger I am in. Moving briskly, I begin the long walk to the bus depot.
I got home sometime after eight o’clock. The night cloaked me with depressing black ink, saturating into me with its darkness, so very dark, and I wasn't completely convinced the locks wouldn't be changed by the time I get home.
What was I thinking? Armageddon exploded when I walked in with those flowers. I was a lying, cheating whore, who was secretly dating other men behind his back.
Cue: Atomic bomb. He blew up for hours.
Cue: Nuclear demolition. The tears a torrent of seeping misery.
Cue: monsoon flood. Is it so hard to believe that someone would give me flowers without fucking me first?
My eyelids are swollen from crying, and I stare at the object of my pain. I now hate those flowers. Giving it more thought, who in their right mind sends flowers as a romantic gesture? (Here, have something pretty and watch it die. Not exactly a good omen for a relationship ... oh ... and Gary doesn't do romantic.)
Then he goes through my bag looking for evidence of my soliciting. I want to vanish as he gloats, wielding a phone number.
Oh shit.
"Whose number is this?"
"A friend."
He's way too close, pushing the paper up to my nose to emphasise that I can't deny its existence.
"A male?"
I shake my head.
He glares further, I shrink away from the baleful glare. Convulsions begin when he picks up the phone and dials the number. I am so afraid I feel like I'm going to vomit. Gary's outrage is transparent when a male baritone answers the call. I can hear it from here.
Gary disconnects, turning his body to face me, quivering in a foetal position in a chair a few feet away from him. He's radiating waves of aggression. I can taste it.
He picked up his keys and left. I cried all night. I didn't sleep. He came home at around 4 a.m. and didn't even acknowledge me. I stayed in the lounge all night. Smoking, crying, blowing my nose. It was over. And I had done nothing wrong.
Chapter 11
Uncomfortably Numb
I’m dressed for work and about to leave to catch the bus, when he approached me. He still seemed stern, but now exuded mild anxiety.
"Where are you going?"
Duh. Isn't it obvious? "To work."
My voice is husky, my throat is raw. I have an evil fairy with an ice-pick doing incessant damage to my brain. Light hurts my eyes. I've tried my best to hide my despair behind make-up.
"Aren't I taking you?"
I stare at him. He's offering me the floatation ring after the flooding and capsizing of my precarious ship. The dam bursts, and I blurt, "I love you."
He doesn't miss a beat this guy. One moment of weakness, "One condition."
I nod. Name your price, I'm going cheap.
"You destroy those fucking flowers."
I nod and agree. He smiles the evil ‘I'm going to do bad things to you' smile. His demeanour instantly morphs, and he's happy as a junkie on a high.
How do men manage to plot a flower execution between 4.00 a.m. and 6:30 a.m.? He took me straight to Chapman's Peak drive and pushed me to the edge of the rock overhang, overlooking the ocean with a sheer drop. Waiting for me to throw them. I stare at the pretty flowers in my hands and hesitate. It seems such a waste to destroy the ceramic bowl too. Can't I keep the bowl?
He rips them from my hands and hurls them like an expert baseball pitcher, "For fuck's sake woman!"
I feel pretty sad about their extreme death. I don't feel right. Something inside is missing. I'm feeling oddly emotionally numb, and return to the transportation capsule to go to work. Sullenly, I observe the early morning divers pulling on wet-suits as he noisily throttles past them, drawing attention
to us. I sink down in my seat, embarrassed.
With less than two minutes before reaching the destination he wiggles his eyebrows at me and gives me that instigating grin, "Aren't you forgetting something?"
I look back at him, blankly.
He looks meaningfully down at his crotch. I stare at it and debate with myself internally. This means the game's still on. I sigh and adjust my safety belt to lean over.
I left him high and dry in that vehicle as I walked to the door to enter the building through the staff side entrance. He would be so pissed, and today, I just don't care.
Mr Security Guard takes one look at me and bolts out of the door. Great! I guess the make-up doesn't successfully hide my puffy eyes.
"Jesus, what happened?"
Ha! Um ... you are sweet, but somehow I don't think you'd understand.
"He didn't like me getting flowers. We had a fight."
This guy is sharp, I'll give him that. Oh, and for the record ladies, don't tell another man you've had a fight, when what you've really had is an argument.
"He phoned me didn't he?"
Unwilling to confess to that, I simply look at him, pondering how to answer.
"I stayed up all night worrying about you after that."
Fuck. He knows.
"I'm sorry. I was too scared to phone you and explain. He found the number in my bag and thought the worst."
Ooookay, that didn't sound too good either. Shit this slope is slippery.
"You look like shit."
Thanks a lot.
My mouth morphs into a generic smile, "I didn't get much sleep."
He examines my arms and stares hard at me, "Are you okay?"
Well now, where do I start? No. I'm not okay. But I know what you mean, so that makes the answer yes.
"Of course I am."
You can look at me as doubtfully as you want. My heart is torn to shreds over unfair accusations. I don't know where the hell he was for at least eight hours, and I'll never find out.
I didn't sleep, I didn't eat, but hey, I'm fine. My body is unharmed so you can just STOP thinking that. He's a lot of things, but he's not that.
We have an eye clash. He's challenging me with his expression. I'm defiantly staring back. Finally he moves out of my way and opens the door for me.
I walk to my desk and pretty much behave the same way I did yesterday. As I am now well aware 'I look like shit', I don't particularly feel like having other people noticing that too.
I'm engrossed in the adding of numbers and balancing of investments when I become aware of the blue uniform standing at my desk. Startled, I look up into Mr Security Guard's worried face.
"Do you still have my number?"
I shake my head. He smiles and hands me a new one.
"Hide it properly."
Okay, I'm going to cry. This is so touching. He hardly knows me and he wants to save me.
I take the secret code to his phone from him, bury it under some paper, and scoot as fast as humanly possible with my head down for the ladies. He saw the tears. I hide inside a stall and cry as quietly as I can.
(In hindsight I have to thank him. His sympathy, gave me strength he will never know.)
* * * * *
Night falls, and I wonder if I'm supposed to catch the bus and just don't know this yet. I've been having a silent stand-off of ocular clashes with 'my hero' all day and now he's got his arms crossed glaring at me. He wants me to 'fess up. I have nothing to 'fess up about. It's my life. It's my pain. I don't want to share it. I finally run out of paperwork and fold my hands on my desk and stare back.
"Stefanie, I don't like him."
Well now, that's your problem not mine. I remain silent.
"No one should make you this unhappy."
Thanks, I appreciate that. How do I change that though? My eyes stare into his and I feel tears threatening, again. Damn it!
He can see it, and gets up off his chair and starts walking toward me, when Gary's blond head appears at the door. He immediately gets the wrong idea which is plain to see from his expression.
Oh God. These two are about to have a confrontation over me, and it's all one big misunderstanding.
(I will never understand men.)
Mr Security Guard squares his shoulders and unclips the clip that keeps his gun in the holster. He walks to the door with unveiled aggression. Whoa! Shit! Gary squares up too. He's ready for a stand-off.
I grab my bag, panicked.
The door opens marginally behind the security chains and I almost want to laugh when my hero talks through the gap, as if to a stranger, "Can I help you?"
"I'm here for my woman!"
"Sorry, who are you looking for?"
Oh, this is delicious.
"STEFANIE!"
Waaahahaha, this is classic.
"I'll see if she's ready to leave."
Hahahaha, and he closes the door on Gary and bolts it! I am the only person here, in full view.
My problem? I see the humour in this and want to laugh. But they're both deadly serious.
He looks at me, his hand still on his gun, "You don't have to go with him."
I smile, I can't disguise it. (Oopsy, that’s seriously pissed off Gary. He's looking like he's having cardiac arrest out there. I've never seen his face turn that scarlet.) Truth? I have to go.
I pat his arm as I walk past him, "Thanks. I'll be fine." (Looking at Gary's expression, I'm not so sure.)
He blocks the door, "Stefanie, don't. You don't have to."
Yes. I do!
Taking a deep breath, I tell him sincerely, "It will be fine, really. I appreciate what you're doing, but I love him. We're just having some issues. Don't worry about me so much." I smile and whisper, "I have your number and I will call you if I need you, okay?"
This seems to appease him, "Promise?"
"I promise."
He opens the door and glowers at Gary. Both of them taller than me, Mr Security, taller than Gary. I halt, standing between them. I take hold of Gary's arm and tug, "Let's go."
Gary hesitates. This stand off of glares over my head is unnerving me. I look at my hero and fuckenhell – no wonder he's a security guard. He obviously has what it takes.
I'm adrenalised. I don't want any blood spilled on my behalf. I order forcefully, "Gary, we're leaving!"
He looks down at me livid with hatred. Oh Fuck. Why is it always my flipping fault? He doesn't break eye contact with the man with the gun, as I drag him away from the door. As I get to his white S3, he corners me against it, "What were you talking about?"
"Nothing."
"Then why wouldn’t he open the fucking door?"
Yeah, blame me. Go on.
Boldly meeting his eyes, I drop sarcasm, "I. Don’t. Know."
"WHAT DID YOU TELL HIM?"
Deep sigh. Count to five. Actually, you know what, I'm just too tired and emotional for this. I look away and see the ‘I'm about to run out there and save you from yourself’ expression from blondie, behind the office window, watching us. Shit. Why is life so complicated? Man! I'm feeling like everything is horribly unfair and I'm hot-listed for the persecution queue.
I stare at Gary, and for the first time, do not care. "Gary, nothing I say or do makes any difference. Believe whatever the hell you want."
I stalk off toward the bus stop. I'm running out of patience for this melodramatic existence. I don't have the energy any more.
A car idles next to me, "Get in!"
Fuck off, asshole.
He pulls it to a stop in front of me and gets out, "Woman, would you please get in the car?"
I stop dead in shock. He said ‘please’. Wow. Oh wow! Who knew he actually loves me. He's upset and it's showing.
I glare – (keeping it cool) – and get in. We drive home in silence. No music blaring, just a long uncomfortable silence.
When I get home I kick into autopilot and make dinner. I do everything that I do everyday. Yes, you heard me. Everything.
&nb
sp; I was under house arrest for three months for that day. I am now twenty-three and being treated like a naughty toddler. I may not have phone calls, or go out.
Why did I just compliantly do this? Where was my spine? Where was my head? Ooooh yeah, right. So far up Gary's ass I couldn't see Nirvana any longer.
He became irrational. He would go out– (a man has to do what a man has to do)– and come home over the weekends, sporadically. He would walk in, leaving the door open, and run his hand over the curtain rail, "There's dust on here! It'd better be clean when I get home!"
What do you mean when you get home? You just got home!
And he would leave as dramatically as he arrived. I cooked everyday, I cleaned everything. (I even washed the fucking walls.) The house and routine were so amazing that I would have eaten confidently off my own floors: the Queens of Clean, Aggie and Kim, would have been so proud. He made life as awkward as he could, putting pressure on me daily to "change jobs".
Reason set in. I'd had to catch the bus for months. He no longer cared if I got mugged on my way home. So, using the few brain cells I still engaged, I found employment doing exactly the same thing for a branch much closer to home. Close enough to walk.
This made Gary happier. He was reborn as Mr Charming, ‘I'm going to fuck you until you walk like a cowgirl’, Gary. Gary: the one and only master of the deranged.
In truth, I’m happier too. The crowd at this place are my age, and out together every weekend. I feel like one of the crowd, and welcome.
Three months, and I take a stand one Sunday afternoon. Gary didn't have to answer to me. He never did. He came and went as though I was his house slave. (Which I am: let's face facts here.) But I am no longer content with it. He walked to the door primped and ready, when I demanded, "Where are you going?"
"Out."
Oh, I can see that, asshole!
"Where are you going?"
Hey, where did that authority in my voice come from?
He throws me a stunned expression, "To play pool."
"I'm coming with you."
I wasn't asking. I was telling. If he'd said no, I would not have been there when he got home. And I think he sensed this.
"Okay. Sure. Why not."
I grab my smokes, giving him no reason to stall, or find an excuse. The house is bloody perfect in every aspect, so that one's off the board. I stalk past through the open door and to his vehicle.
