critically, so harshly that spit flew with the 'clothes'. 'And what else ?'
And just when I thought we were getting along. 'Only pants and a shirt and some cottontails. Nothing different to what I've got on now. And a toothbrush and paste.' I left off the bag, as the look on his face took the saliva right out of my mouth.
'That's all , eh?'
I regret to say, I burst into tears.
'Desirée,' he growled with severity—but thankfully, not rage. 'You propose that I spend my money on purchasing just what you need to look the same as you look now, and then you'll come back and brush your teeth, while I work ?'
I hadn't proposed anything. But at the moment, my sole possessions were my glorious future and the clothes on my back—and the clothes reeked like a hot, post-Christmas rubbish bin, down to the rotting prawn shells.
My teeth chattered, but for my self-esteem I had to answer. 'I haven't proposed anything,' I insisted. 'Can't you see I have some simple needs?' I heard the wheedle in my voice, but couldn't stop it.
'I expect no less from you than I do from myself!'
All became clear. This was jail. He was my master. The book was my punishment. And he was a liar. 'But you said you'd write it!'
'Desirée!'
What had once been food leapt from my throat, spattering the bottom of his futon mountain. An insufficiently masticated arm of baby octopus hung from a corner of grey rubber. Before I could breath properly, another convulsive spasm added more mess to the lake on the shiny parquet. Then I retched bile. My teeth had felt velvety before. Now, in the interstices of my top front teeth, shreds of vomit hung.
I ran out of the room and brought back towels, but he stopped me with his hand held up. 'Leave it!'
My body shook, but I stood to attention with the towels hanging from my hands, because I didn't know what else to do. I was too scared, too heartbroken, to think.
'Now now,' he said. 'My dear Desirée.'
He threw down a handkerchief. It landed in the puddle, so he pulled out another that he knotted first, and I caught it.
'Ta,' I said, wiping my face and throwing it back, where it disappeared.
'May I call you Desirée?' he continued, with a token of a smile. 'Good. Now look at yourself.'
That was easy. The walls were full of me.
'Do you see a Desirée?'
And then , all became clear.
And when I bent to clean up the mess, he stopped me. 'Would Desirée do that?' And then he added, 'Or would Desirée—'
'Just call room service.'
Of one thing, I was sure. The staff at the Restonia had cleaned up messes far worse than mine.
~
I didn't get a salary with my new job, but I did get a credit card in my name (Desirée Lily)— with a 'Ms'. Brett was learning! I had to order up a pen and paper to design my signature so I could perform my first task, signing my card—tremendous fun.
My credit limit was 'Whatever makes Desirée Desirée', and when I added 'and then some', Brett nodded approvingly.
This first day was going to be terribly rushed, with now only two hours to closing time, and me being so inexperienced. The only two things I'd ever really shopped for were fancy fountain pens and paper, my only other lash-outs being cake in coffee shops. Those style and fashion magazines I was so addicted to flipping through were nothing I had regarded with any more attention to detail than the clothes in paintings hung in an art museum.
I needed to organize my thoughts before barging out of the Restonia the way I usually barged out of everywhere—without a plan—so I tried lying on my bed, to think. And that re-prioritized my first decision. Instead of leaving the Restonia to rush downtown, I pushed the button in my bedroom wall, for room service.
'Madam' (I wasn't sure about this, but this was their term of address, so I let it be) required: 'A king-size super-comfortable bed with full thickness mattress and box springs, high enough off the floor so I can stand a pair of knee-high boots underneath. And a little
And just when I thought we were getting along. 'Only pants and a shirt and some cottontails. Nothing different to what I've got on now. And a toothbrush and paste.' I left off the bag, as the look on his face took the saliva right out of my mouth.
'That's all , eh?'
I regret to say, I burst into tears.
'Desirée,' he growled with severity—but thankfully, not rage. 'You propose that I spend my money on purchasing just what you need to look the same as you look now, and then you'll come back and brush your teeth, while I work ?'
I hadn't proposed anything. But at the moment, my sole possessions were my glorious future and the clothes on my back—and the clothes reeked like a hot, post-Christmas rubbish bin, down to the rotting prawn shells.
My teeth chattered, but for my self-esteem I had to answer. 'I haven't proposed anything,' I insisted. 'Can't you see I have some simple needs?' I heard the wheedle in my voice, but couldn't stop it.
'I expect no less from you than I do from myself!'
All became clear. This was jail. He was my master. The book was my punishment. And he was a liar. 'But you said you'd write it!'
'Desirée!'
What had once been food leapt from my throat, spattering the bottom of his futon mountain. An insufficiently masticated arm of baby octopus hung from a corner of grey rubber. Before I could breath properly, another convulsive spasm added more mess to the lake on the shiny parquet. Then I retched bile. My teeth had felt velvety before. Now, in the interstices of my top front teeth, shreds of vomit hung.
I ran out of the room and brought back towels, but he stopped me with his hand held up. 'Leave it!'
My body shook, but I stood to attention with the towels hanging from my hands, because I didn't know what else to do. I was too scared, too heartbroken, to think.
'Now now,' he said. 'My dear Desirée.'
He threw down a handkerchief. It landed in the puddle, so he pulled out another that he knotted first, and I caught it.
'Ta,' I said, wiping my face and throwing it back, where it disappeared.
'May I call you Desirée?' he continued, with a token of a smile. 'Good. Now look at yourself.'
That was easy. The walls were full of me.
'Do you see a Desirée?'
And then , all became clear.
And when I bent to clean up the mess, he stopped me. 'Would Desirée do that?' And then he added, 'Or would Desirée—'
'Just call room service.'
Of one thing, I was sure. The staff at the Restonia had cleaned up messes far worse than mine.
~
I didn't get a salary with my new job, but I did get a credit card in my name (Desirée Lily)— with a 'Ms'. Brett was learning! I had to order up a pen and paper to design my signature so I could perform my first task, signing my card—tremendous fun.
My credit limit was 'Whatever makes Desirée Desirée', and when I added 'and then some', Brett nodded approvingly.
This first day was going to be terribly rushed, with now only two hours to closing time, and me being so inexperienced. The only two things I'd ever really shopped for were fancy fountain pens and paper, my only other lash-outs being cake in coffee shops. Those style and fashion magazines I was so addicted to flipping through were nothing I had regarded with any more attention to detail than the clothes in paintings hung in an art museum.
I needed to organize my thoughts before barging out of the Restonia the way I usually barged out of everywhere—without a plan—so I tried lying on my bed, to think. And that re-prioritized my first decision. Instead of leaving the Restonia to rush downtown, I pushed the button in my bedroom wall, for room service.
'Madam' (I wasn't sure about this, but this was their term of address, so I let it be) required: 'A king-size super-comfortable bed with full thickness mattress and box springs, high enough off the floor so I can stand a pair of knee-high boots underneath. And a little
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