once there was a whore (3)

What surprised me more was my immediate pleasure at the thought of having Jane near, all the time.

Jane moved in with me. The change was, to say the least, cataclysmic. She left her underwear in the most inconvenient places: under the seat cushion, in my pants pockets, served beside my morning coffee. She laughed too loud. She sang horribly off-key songs in the shower. She washed my clothes and sorted my shirts by color. She redecorated my living room in pink and orange and was amused by my outrage. She poked around in my files and pretended to be fascinated with legal talk.

I hurried home in the evening to a hot supper and good sex afterwards. I woke up in the morning with a smile and a warm woman wrapped in my arms.
I told my friends Jane was a long-lost sweetheart. I made up her background and painted a sorority sweetheart with the correct connections. Jane’s eyes would grow wary, but her smile remained brilliant.

Somehow my mother found out about her. She knew I was living with a woman, but she thought it was Iris. Jane, who never learned the correct manners, opened the door to her in her underwear while I was out. Mother later stormed the law office and extracted a confession from a terrified secretary about the ill-bred, half-naked woman in my house. She then threatened to tell all her ballroom-dancing friends, my tied-and-tucked lawyer friends, and my father’s politician friends if I didn’t send Jane packing. A week later, she investigated and found out that Jane was still at the house. She told everyone as promised, and then she sent Iris.

Iris had polished nails, designer clothes, and a character backed by twenty years of exclusive schools. She had a sharp mind and a sharper tongue. She also placed third in the bar exam we took together, and we slept together the day the bar exam results were released.

Jane fled. Before she left, she broke every single plate in the house and smashed a dumbbell through the tv set.