The Idylls of March

Chapter One

Chapter One

I stir my coffee, sugar and creamer swirling spirals in my cup. And I sip. And wait…

…

…

There you are…

I see you…

Patrolling your territory. Along with that other one you work with, with her bottle-blonde hair and over-inflated chest.

The pair of you pace up and down, parading to the passing traffic in your tacky skirts and your too-low tops, displaying yourselves…

Even whores can be pretty, I suppose.

You're wearing your hair up tonight. You’ve braided it into a coiled knot, sitting high. It looks complicated. You must have taken a long time over it. Or perhaps your cheap little friend did it for you.

Some might say it's classy, but I prefer it the way you wear it when you're not working: sometimes in that long ponytail, clipped behind to swing down to your waist.

But it’s best of all when you wear your hair loose: a dark waterfall, cascading over your shoulders, flowing almost to your knees, silky and shiny.

Beautiful hair.

You'll wear your hair loose for me.

When we meet properly.

You've not seen me yet.

Not noticed me.

There’s no reason you should notice me. I've not introduced myself yet. And to the café staff, I’m simply having a meal and a coffee as I pass through. Just as I always do. Like all the others, the hundreds who pass through the cafe or on the street every day.

I’m a face. One amongst the multitude.

But I’ve seen you. Every night for the last month.

Some of the days too.

To your clients, you're Jez, or Delilah, or Vivian. Or whatever you want to call yourself. And when you're done, you gather with others of your ilk at some bar or other, psychedelic with music, alcohol, lights and drugs.

But I'm being unfair. You're not like those others. I've seen the scars, the withered veins where the needles have entered. The drunken frolics where they drink the night's takings instead of paying the rent.

No, you're not like them: your skin clean and whole, a single glass of wine, where they're knocking back shot after shot of vodka. You've only allowed your self-abuse to go so far.

I like that about you. Nice and clean.

Nice and healthy.

Last week, as you flagged down the barman for your drink, you cooed and chatted with him as he poured. He cracked some crap joke and you laughed. He called you Emma.

Are you f*****g him?

Emma…

A car pulls up at your corner. As the window winds down, you strut across, stooping to talk to the driver.

Will you be f*****g him next?

Yesterday, at the hot dog stand, queuing behind you, I could smell your cheap perfume, competing with frying onions. You shouldn't use that stuff. It doesn’t suit you. You’re better than that.

But the sunshine made a glittering liquid fall of your hair, tracing the curve of your spine to the belt of your jeans, swishing over your hips.

Beautiful hair.

Your own colour? I think so. No betraying roots. Only a cascade of glinting black. Almost a blue-black. Sleek and smooth.

A bit of Chinese or Indian in you perhaps?

How can something so corrupt be so beautiful?

Still, perhaps you’ll pay your way tonight.

You straighten up from the car, gesturing to your big-titted blonde friend. It’s her the driver wants.

Why would he want her when he could buy you?

After half a minute’s dicker, the passenger door swings open. Big-t**s gets in and the car pulls away.

So now, you stand alone, facing into the flow of the traffic, still flaunting yourself to strangers.

I wipe down my plate with the last of the bread, knock back my coffee, and as the fat waitress clears my table, I drop a few coppers by the check. I pick up my car keys, “Night, Brenda.”

“G’night, Pat. Sleep well.”

“Sure I will. See you tomorrow.”

*****