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Last Surviving Link

Posted on December 26, 2006
Filed Under The Stories |

“Don’t ever forget it honey, men are pigs.”

A beautiful child was splashing around in the little pool that flanked the spectacular expanse of turquoise water that served as the splashing space for adults. The child would periodically draw his eyes away from the unique patterns of light that were thrown up by each contact between his pudgy arm and the welcome, cool wetness he was seated in, to ensure that his mother was still in sight. Once satisfied that she was he would go back to creating another split second of beauty. The maid entrusted with the responsibility of watching over him was honouring her commitment with an eagle eye and a certain spring-like set to her entire body that efficiently conveyed the possession of speed, agility and strength. This was no ordinary servant imported from whatever neighbouring country had economic difficulties and more citizens that food.

This entire setting made the words uttered by the baby’s mother all the more surreal. I turned my attention to her and waited. Dressed, if such a word can actually apply, in a bikini that would have frustrated an anorexic twelve-year-old’s attempt to look thin, the child’s mother wore an expression of disdain. I had to exercise all my will to keep my eyes on her face, since her eyes were hidden behind oversized sunglasses that were de rigueur for all rich, beautiful or rich and beautiful women, especially in this neighbourhood. Those were not the breasts of a woman who had given birth to three children, nor were those the legs, ass or any other body part of anything that could be described as human (without negating the rest of the race upon comparison).

I was searching, no praying, for a flaw. A mole where it wouldn’t be sexy to have one, hair where none could grow, an extra digit, possible hints that she was actually a hermaphrodite…anything. Just so that I could cling to even a hint of comfort with the image that presented itself when I snuck glances in a mirror.

I wanted imperfection and all I got was a catch-all statement that ordinary women had been making since time immemorial. Still trying to avoid caressing her ill-concealed curves with my heterosexual eyes, I waited. With a sigh, she continued, “I know I have no right to expect sympathy and I don’t ask for it. Doesn’t change facts though, men are pigs, always will be; which is why I always make it a point to make them pay.”

I still don’t know what we are talking about here. She raises the sunglasses, allows them to become the hair-band that holds her hair off her face. Her eyes are brown, the pupils aren’t dilated and she doesn’t blink through what she says next, “Each and every one of them loves the prospect of fucking a fantasy. Sometimes I think we are the last surviving game that men can hunt without guilt. But get even one of them to actually commit to loving a woman for longer than it takes them to get what they want and you might as well ask them to cut off their own nuts and drop them in a jar of formaldehyde.”

She checks on her baby again. He is fine, and still not bored with the splashing sound that follows each time he slaps the water around him. The maid continues to hover. The tableau is exactly as we left it a few moments ago so she completes the thought, “I am destined to never keep a man so I have children with them. The men will move on but they will always have ties to me through the children I bear.”

“Alimony might well be the last enduring link between a man and a woman.”

With that she drops the sunglasses back onto her nose and leans her head back. I can only assume her eyes are now closed behind those dark shades because I have no way of knowing. This much is clear, I have been dismissed.

Is this the flaw I was looking for? Or the final sign of perfection?

It is a long way back to my cubicle at the newspaper but I’m not sure I will ever figure this one out, filing time be damned.

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