once there was a whore (4)

I told myself I was relieved. My pad returned to its normal, rather disheveled state. I immersed myself in paperwork and stayed late in the office. I started going out with Iris, and there were nights when Iris would come home with me. By the time Iris’ clothes started appearing alongside mine in the closet, my mother became ecstatic and started hinting at the prospect of grandchildren.

I was also very unhappy and I did not exactly know why.

One night after dinner, I found Iris browsing over Jane’s pictures on my laptop.
“You know, you should delete these,” she said.
“Leave that alone.”
“So tell me. What did you see in her? I always wondered about that, your call-girl girlfriend.”
“I’m not in the mood for a discussion.”
“She must be good in bed. How much did you spend on her?”
I surprised myself by being angry. “I did not pay her for the sex. Let’s not talk about her.”
“Touchy, touchy,” Iris said, twining her body around me. “So, can she carry an intelligent conversation?”
“Why? So you could congratulate yourself for being a high-handed bitch?”

Iris looked at me long and hard. “Oh, forget it, Mike. Let’s go to bed,” she said.
I removed her arms from around my neck. “Maybe you should go home tonight, Iris.”

Iris then laughed, and her laughter was mocking. “Oh, my God, you’ve fallen in love with a whore!”

I could not say anything. I guess I was stunned. “And you’re not even man enough to admit it. Some kind of hotshot lawyer you are.”
She started to walk away, then she turned to me.
“You know, I’m not here for the sex alone. Get over her, then call me. If you can’t get over her, you’re too smart to be just sitting here doing nothing about it.”

And finally I had to face the truth. I hurried back to Jane, hoping I wasn’t too late.

But of course I was too late. Jane had killed herself. She had thrown herself from an overpass, taking with her all her silent dreams. I cursed the heavy rain that hid my tears; I cursed the briefcase of work that caused me to arrive at her house only three hours late. I cursed the society that damned the Janes of this world to indignity and humiliation. I cursed myself for being weak, for being ashamed, for holding back.

Her note was short. It said, ‘You shouldn’t have taught me to dream. Fuck you, Mike, but I loved you.’

I’m back at the bar, nursing a drink in a little tribute to her. I’m half drunk and half praying to see a lady in a tight black dress, alone and beautiful in the smoky dark.

And if I did, God, I will walk up to her. I wouldn’t care so much about what people would think or say, about my nice little lawyerly world, about educated guesses and social standing. I would worry less about bad sexual habits and more about singing in the shower. I wouldn’t be so scared to accept all that she is.

And I would dare her to dream. I would dare her to fall in love with me. And I would tell her I love her.