Finding new love

Chapter 1 - Isabella

A week has passed since our outing and since meeting him. A week doesn’t get out of my head. I sit at the counter in my dry cleaners on the corner of Ninth and Stewart streets and stare out the window. Fifteen more minutes until the shift is handed over to Bruce, and I, instead of tidying up the pile of shirts I received, hold a card with my name and phone number in my hand. Oliver. Oliver Law. What an unusual name. Suitable for an unusual character. I searched for his name on the internet, of course, I did. I allowed myself to just briefly look at his pictures and find out who he was. I found out that he is a rich man who owns an oil company. I didn't want to read any further. I'm in a f*****g moral dilemma. For a moment, it's all funny and very shallow, but I think for a moment. I also looked at his pictures. He has beautiful blue eyes and a square jaw, beautiful facial features, and an age that fits him well. He is actually young, he is only thirty-seven years old, but there is something in him that makes his soul old. His face is before my eyes for hours, days. 

“Hey, Isabella! Are you ready for today? ” Bruce walks into the dry cleaners and pulls me out of my thoughts. 

"Oh, I didn't. I have my shirts left but ignore them. I take care of it in the morning, today I am completely listless and slow. "

 "No problem, you're the boss. If you want, just order. ” 

"Don't be silly, Bruce, I'm not the boss. My dad wouldn't be proud of me if he knew I was the boss. We are colleagues and I am glad about that. " 

The dry cleaner was rewritten in my name after my dad died the year before last. In fact, I didn’t want it to close or be leased to someone else. There’s Dad’s spirit, he left his best years here. I took the job on myself because I grew up there anyway and learned everything. I’m not sorry I interrupted my art history studies, this is a job I love. I feel my purpose and Dad would be proud. Still, I wouldn't be the least bit proud to know what thoughts were swarming in my head. One hundred f*****g thousands of dollars. I’ve never seen so much money on a pile. The salary I bring in is less than the one my mom earns at a foreign language school while teaching French. But that's enough for the two of us. For now. What if mom gets sick? What when he gets older? What if they tell us we have to move out of the apartment? What if something happens to me? It is money that I could use to ensure a carefree future for myself and my mother. But that would mean I would sell out. So I would put a price on my body. I turn on my cell phone and go to the picture gallery. Yes, I downloaded one picture of Oliver and I admire her. In fact, I admire him. It's beautiful. When I lie, I would f**k him for sure! Am I a more moral person if I didn’t take the money? What difference does it make if I spent that one night with him, for free? People f**k for a joint, for a mobile phone, for hunting or for fun, for pleasure, and finally for love. There are various reasons for s*x. Can anyone condemn someone for the motives for deciding to have s*x? Am I more moral if I f**k him just for pleasure? What if, in addition to pleasure, I also receive a gift that can improve my life? Because if he didn't have that money, he wouldn't even offer it. Not just that! I'm interested, indescribably interested, why did he offer me money? Why me? Maybe by doing so he wanted to skip courtship, dating, and wasting time until we figure out if we fit in with each other. I don't know, but I f*****g know he occupied me. It's not a reason to hunt because I'm not poor and I don't miss anything ... But I want to ... At least a little, I want to see and hear it. I need to know what he wants from me. I don’t dare say anything to girls because I’m ashamed to even think about someone paying me for s*x. Although, girls would tell me I’m crazy to think at all. Sarah would call Oliver and immediately say she would be with him for free. Emily would ask to join them, and Kat would eventually raise the price to two hundred thousand. 

"Isabella, you can go or stay ironing, as you please, sweetheart." Bruce laughs as I am still buried in place and thinking. I go outside, but turn to him and ask a little uncertainly: 

"Bruce, what did you say, which actress is perfect for you, but you can't say that in front of a woman?" He laughed out loud and replied, 

“Sofia Vergara. Why do you ask? Don't say she came to our dry cleaners?! ” get excited in an instant because it is not unusual for celebrities to come to us. "No, but if he comes, don't worry. You will be notified. I ask like that, hypothetically. Sofia comes to you, you're both solos, and she tells you she wants you. But watch out! For one night and they will pay you. ” 

"I would say no thinking! And you wouldn't have to pay me anything, I'd love to do everything. " 

"Fool!" I slap him on the shoulder as he closes his eyes and imagines. 

"Still, would you consider getting fat money from her just for that one night?" 

"Look, it's not a bad question. So I would get s*x with a wonderful woman and, after all, more money? So who would refuse that? ”

 I wonder the same thing as I walk towards my apartment. Okay, this is a little different thing. A man who would do that would not be characterized as a w***e. And a woman would? Silence greeted me in our apartment. It's already fifteen o'clock, and Mom's only coming in at twenty. He sometimes works for ten hours. I take off my jeans and change into the bottom of my pajamas. It’s my ritual as soon as I get home. I also discard my bra and walk in a casual outfit. I’m doing dinner for the two of us and thinking about previous relationships. I’ve been solo for eight months now since I broke up with Francis. It was a wonderful relationship, but in the end, it was worn out. We were fed up with each other or we just weren’t so deeply attached. Before him, I had a one-year relationship with Mathias. It was an exciting relationship because I was a student eager to have fun and experience, and I experienced it all with a weird Italian. He took me everywhere and bought me expensive gifts, even though I never asked for them. I bite my lip and turn off dinner. I quicken my pace and enter my room. I know what makes me open my closet and start taking out pieces of clothing; the jeans Mathias bought me, the bag Francis paid me for, the white gold necklace, the expensive makeup, the Louboutin heels that Mathias insisted on ... It's a bunch of what I got from the guys I was in a relationship with. Did I love any of them? I certainly did while we were together and certainly not for the gift. Are gifts also ways to buy my body, even though I was happy to share that pleasure with them? Can this be characterized as w***e behavior or is the gift just a token of attention for someone you care about? An act that would mean and make another person happy? It was wonderful with these guys while we were together, but at some point, we realized we weren’t for each other. It wasn't the love you were dying for, it wasn't the real thing. It was a girl's infatuation and, equally, a girl's madness. Oliver does not fall into that category. He is not a boy eager for s*x. He needs me for something else. Because I’m sure, he could have had the woman he wanted in that club. He just needed to point a finger at her. Why does he want me? And for God's sake, why does he need to pay for it? I dare not seek advice from anyone because no one stood under that gaze as I did. No one felt the dumb speech of his eyes as I did, no one as appropriated as I did. Although I did not understand what he wanted to tell me, I felt the need for it. Plus, it looks like a dream: it’s handsome, appealing, and impressive. There is something in him that does not give me peace, something that makes him look at me as if he knows me. I’m afraid I’ll give in to my curiosity, pick up my cell phone and dial his number. I'm afraid I'm going to sell myself, so I take that card and start tearing the paper. I can not! Why I can not? What makes me weak? Hell, money doesn't mean anything to me! I could sell the dry cleaner and I would have half the amount he offered me. For a single night. Still, my fingers stroke the paper, flatten it where I started to tear it, and shove it under my pillow.