Dirty Little Secrets

I heard him before I saw him, shoes echoing on the floor as he ran lightly up the steps. Slightly out of breath, he stepped into the cool shade of the green canopy overhead, the slight breeze from the ocean barely rustling the paper I read as he passed. The air, heavy with the scent of the steeping tea. Watching him move across the room and settle into the chair, I stirred the tea in my cup and watched him without seeming to watch him. A waiter could earn a fortune here within one day, but there were not many people in the cafe this time of the morning. The waiter said handing him a menu, “As you see, we offer a variety of multiculinary delights that support a variety of cuisines. Would you like something to drink while you decide?” He nodded and ordered something, too quietly for me to overhear. He seemed preoccupied, took out his pocket watch and looked at it several times, as if waiting for someone.

Nothing is so unexpected as the emotion we feel upon seeing our name unexpectedly in print. And there, on page four, was mine. The text recounted at a length an overview of my life and career. I read the thing through in its entirety three times before I appreciated a nuance which my disordered mind had at first failed to grasp — to wit, that this character-sketch of myself was no mere isolated outburst but apparently one of a series. In several places the writer alluded unmistakeably to other theses on the same subject, apparently having appeared in the paper while I was at sea. The shock of seeing ourselves as others see us was just beginning to hit me when he seated himself across from me at the table, uninvited.

Eve glanced outside and realized the entire City was engulfed in fog and that she wouldn’t be able to go across town to meet with the person she’d spoken with earlier on the phone. She gathered the papers into neat piles on her desk, picked up her coat and hat, turned out the lights, and locked the office door behind her. She turned and walked quietly down the hallway and unlocked the door. She had an apartment here, she’d just never felt the need to occupy it and hadn’t done more than glance at it when they’d given her the keys. She stepped inside, flipped the lights on, and closed the door behind her.

Eve looked around more closely now, noted the fireplace, wet bar, and other conveniences, as well as the heavy security built into the place. She tossed her coat and hat on a chair, and fixed herself a drink at the wet bar. She glanced up to see a handsome young man wrapped in a towel standing behind her looking at her in the mirror.

“You’re here,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Yes, I knew you weren’t leaving the office,” he said.

“I don’t recall giving you a key, how did you get in?” she asked, somewhat annoyed, yet at the same time pleased to have the upper hand.

He looked embarrassed, shamed.

“How dare you assume anything about me!” she snapped, “Do you think I’m some sort of toy?… an amusement of some kind?” Her heels echoed across the Italian tile floor as she came towards him.

He started to speak, “Listen, I…”

Her hand came up and slapped him hard across the face. “People lose teeth talking like that. If you want to hang around, you’ll be polite!” she hissed at him through her teeth, “And when you’re slapped, you’ll take it and like it!” She waited for him to get dressed and leave, that was the usual reaction.

Her guest didn’t leave.

Eve was pleased with the gift from The Driver… a small box of Darjeeling he’d had delivered to her office. She savored the aroma of the cup she’d just taken a sip from. The faint overtones of smell that reminded her of it’s origins in the Far East. She was very much looking forward to her journey, a continent her mother had once said that Eve would never be able to afford to visit. Regrettably, Mrs. Quinlan hadn’t lived long enough to see her daughter had reached that unreachable goal. Eve had been there twice since her mother had passed on, this would be the third such journey. She opened her diary and began to write.

Asia is a shape-shifter. Something that can’t be relied upon from region to region, decade to decade. Half dream, half all-too-lived reality, it’s alive with the tensions of that contradiction. Modernity contrasts with antiquity, yet the boundaries are not clear, but hazy. In one moment, you can forget Who and even When you are, only to turn your head and be sharply reminded of the incongruity that surrounds you. Oh, how I wait for Asia!

Eve Quinlan, whom everyone knew as The Evil Queen, was seated on a plush red velvet stool in front of her dressing room mirror. She looked at the face staring back at her. She sighed. Evenings like this were somewhat lonely, but she had no one but herself to blame for it. It wasn’t as if there weren’t several eligible bachelors who would like nothing better than to marry her… well, marry her money, at least. That’s what they all really wanted in the end, and she knew it.

She stood up and wandered out of the room, glanced over at the baby grand piano sitting near the window. It had been ages since she’d actually sat down to play anything on it, business had taken up a lot of her time. She sat down on the piano bench and hit a few keys with her right hand… paused… then began to play a prelude… and then she sang:

You must remember this
A kiss is still a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by

That no one can deny
It’s still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die
Though I will always welcome lovers
As time goes by…

She opened the red leather-bound book and picked up her fountain pen. She paused. The blank vellum page stared back at her, clean, stark, empty.

She began to write.

The machinations of the human heart are of such complexity that often we are unaware of our own intentions even as we carry out our plans. A certain fellow has captured my fancy, and yet, on an intellectual level, I know that it is an impossible match, doomed to failure. I cannot ever hope that this man will understand the sometimes wickedly sinful trysts I engage in from time to time, nor would he think highly of me were he to know. Yet gentlemen are often blissfully unaware of the activities of ladies, regardless of their name or social status, and I fear it would senselessly shock some of them to find out that the ladies in high society often behave no better than the girls in the neighborhood speakeasy.

For that, I will make no apologies. I have always done exactly as I pleased, regardless of societal definitions of normalcy and expected behavior for women. Men may do as they please and are thought of as debonair, manly, and virile. Women do not have that freedom, yet I claim it for myself. Let them say what they will. I will not change to fit their model. I will associate with whomever I please, whenever I please. And if this gentleman is any sort of man at all, he will accept me as I am.