My great escape

I packed my trolley to explosive capacity and took a taxi to the airport. I was going to fly the first plane to Mawi-Mawi and spend there a couple of relaxing weeks, during which I would disappear from the mad world where I belonged. I desperately needed to get far from professional cheaters, supernatural editors and underworld people for a while.

My initiatic journey through brilliant absence excuses -like fake chicken pox, stolen holidays and the supposed solitude I was longing for- had just started. And boy, it was a breath of fresh air. But only ten minutes had passed since I regained freedom, when a strange carnival started.

I was still notorious for having been caught kissing passionately Ed Davies at the Sandwich Arena a few months ago. A clever photographer immortalised that moment with a picture that all the newspapers in Sandwich had published, and it wasn’t strange to see some reporters swarming around me every now and then. The Sandwichian gossips wouldn’t forget that scene so easily.

And this is exactly what happened that day: two guys –one of them holding a camera and the other one grabbing a huge microphone- followed me through the airport labyrinths, as I barely managed to drag my heavy trolley up the escalators.

- Leni, why is your relationship with Ed Davis going downhill? –asked the mic guy-

I would have gladly smacked that filthy grin off his face, but I had learned from Ed that silence and indifference should be my only answer in these situations, no matter how rude the question was.

- Leni, for the Sandwichian Gossip News, would you eventually marry Ed after you make peace? –he asked-
- Wow. Did you go to college four years just to end up asking intelligent questions like that one? –I answered-

Normally I try to avoid hitting back, but frankly, this time I couldn’t help it: they were harassing me. I walked faster towards the Mawi-Mawian Airlines check-in counter, where I stopped. Of course, the reporters followed me around like a plague, asking again and again if Ed and I were dating and/or getting married.

The gospel truth is I still ignore the answer to such mysteries. Yes, I had got a really bad crush on him, rather than being infatuated or suffering from puppy love. But I didn’t know exactly whether we were just friends -with or without benefits- or fuckbuddies with marriage prospects. I just knew that the explosion of neurochemicals and endorphin cocktail in my brain triggered a wonderful butterfly feeling in my stomach every time he was around. And that feeling kept me thinking about him all the time.

I handed over my passport to the guy behind the counter and he gave me my boarding pass. As I loaded my luggage on the conveyor belt, he stared at me. Then he typed something on his keyboard and picked up the phone.

- Anybody could come fetch Ms Qinan? She’s already here. –he said to the person at the other end-

Really, I’m not a celebrity; but since I’ve met Hellgirl, all kinds of weird things have started happening to me. So my capacity to be astonished is actually bomb proof.

- Why fetch me? Who’s coming to fetch me? I’m flying in one hour! –I asked-
- Oh don’t worry. The plane won’t take off without you. It will take you just a couple of minutes; we just need you to answer a few questions. –he said-

I was very intrigued and so were the reporters, who were shooting and registering everything.

As all this was happening, a big security guy appeared driving one of those small vehicles used for travelling from the terminal to the aircraft, and whispered in my ear:

- Ms Qinan, would you please be kind enough to join me?
- Where?
- To the VIP lounge.
- Why?
- Mr. Davies would like to meet you before you take your flight.

I nodded and sighed. I was craving to meet him too, but I had to pretend I didn’t want to, or my pride would be reduced to a little heap of ashes on the floor. So apparently, I was going to be kidnapped for the second time in my life. But I decided not to put any resistance and jumped into the car.

We left the two reporters behind. They protested weakly, waving their arms about. After a couple of minutes driving, the security man dropped me at the VIP lounge’s door, where Ed’s pandimensional hyper-intelligent secretary was waiting for me.

- Good morning Ms Qinan. Please follow me to Mr. Davies’ private room.

She walked fast. I followed her and entered the room. She opened the door and announced me. Ed was sitting on a sofa, in the dark. He took a long drink before he held his iPhone in his left hand to show me the SMS I had sent him the day before. In spite of his usual seemingly phlegmatic appearance, his eyes briefly glowed from red to blue, which was an unmistakable sign of deep annoyance.

- Come in, Leni. –he said, trying to hold back his upsetness-
- How on Earth did you find out that I was here? –I asked-
- And what the fuck do you mean with ‘Don’t bother to get in touch with me. Gonna be very busy and emotionally unavailable for a while’? –he asked, slowly reading the message in a low bad angry voice-
- McGillicuddy has been cheating you. –I said, deliberately ignoring his question-
- I sacked him. –he answered on the spot-
- Good for you.
- I know you refused his offer.
- Good for you too.

There was silence for some seconds and then he sweetened up his voice.

- And I love you for that, Leni. –he whispered-.

I stopped the false cokiness. As soon as I heard him say my name, my knees started shivering.

- How can you possibly think that I am ignoring you, silly? –he asked, as he stroke my hair-
- Because I feel you’re cooling down, Ed. But I’m afraid we will have to continue this conversation next week. I’m flying to Mawi-Mawi in a few minutes.

He sighed deep and smirked.

- I assure you we will continue this conversation. But wait. I need to give you something before you go.

He dug a small jewelry box out of his pocket and gave it to me.

- Don’t open it here; do it in the plane.
- What is it? –I asked-

The box looked like… well, it looked like it contained an engagement ring. To be honest, if I ever dreamed of a marriage proposal, it would be a classic solemn scene -you know, on bended knee and all- rather than me opening the gift box in a plane, surrounded by some three hundred strangers. I tried to regain control during that initial moment of panic and said:

- I’m afraid I can’t accept it, whatever it is.
- You don’t know what it contains. So please, take it. Do it for me. And leave now, sweety. Or you’ll miss your flight.

He kissed me deep and then vanished into thin air, leaving me nervous and aching with longing for him.

I left the VIP lounge clutching the small red box tightly in my right hand. I was a nervous wreck. My heart was beating fast.

As I queued at the passport control and asked myself what the mystery inside the box was, someone bumped into me from behind.


(To be continued)





‘Give me one reason’ (Tracy Chapman)

The asteroid and the small blue planet

I left Ed’s house as soon as I recovered from my stress episode. That same day, the ghost driver took me home in his black Bentley and I went back to my usual routine. Neither trace of egocentric businessmen nor funny little ways: Big Cheese and colleagues acted as if nothing had ever happened.

I recovered my regular pattern of life and … it was hard. It was sad, too. Sad as the ghost of the melting snowflakes on the window glass; sad as the last minute of my sweet childish dreams, from which I had to wake up abruptly without having found my own paradise.

It was already tough and annoying to be back to normal mode in Dumbass. I was used to put up with the irritatingly demanding Big Cheese and Big Shot men; with all those old stick-in-the-muds who looked down on me; with the guys from the Unions taking snapshots of my car and tracing me all over the place; with my old story of suffering from loneliness and melancholy; but I was simply not used to go without Ed. And until that day, I never realised it would hurt like hell.

I e-mailed him the day I left, just to thank him for everything he did for me. I expected some kind of prompt reply, but he never answered.

Easily hurt, but not easily discouraged, I tried to reach him on his cell phone. My faith in him was strong as a rock, so I kept insisting. But he neither returned my calls nor the text messages I sent.

The feeling that things had certainly slowed down, rather cooled down between us since Christmas, had been going round and round in my head. And I soon started carrying that devastating feeling of rejection around in my stomach like a painful, heavy burden; too heavy for me.

I allowed some days, but I didn’t hear from him.

I dared phone his secretary –the hyperintelligent pandimensional shrew who hated me so much-. She said he was busy. She didn’t even bother to say she’d give him the message. Why would she.

I knew he was okay because that excruciatingly long week I saw his picture appear twice in the papers and my wild imagination immediately started creating all kinds of emotional disasters and betrayals.

I missed him madly. And what was worse, from my emotional reaction I realised I had completely fallen for him. But my irrational mind stubbornly refused to process that feeling. I was going insane, restless, nervous and hesitant.

After eight unbearable nights of quiet suffering, helplessly hoping, I totally lost it and decided to drive to his house. It was almost midnight, but the gates of his mansion were still open. I parked my car in the gardens. The ghost butler opened the door and greeted me before I even rang the doorbell.

- Good evening Ms Qinan, it’s nice to see you again. –he smiled-
- God evening, Stoicescu. Nice to see you too. Is Mr. Davies in? –I asked-
- Yes, Ms Qinan. Lord Davies has just arrived from a long trip. Please, follow me to the study. –he answered solemnly-
- No worries, I know the way.

The butler bowed elegantly and left. Lord Davies, he said. For gawd’s sake. Yes, he was a real Lord: the title was bestowed on him by the king Clovis III (also known as ‘the King who lost Orsinia’). But as a plebeian working class princess, these aristocratic pedigree legends were really not my scene.

I walked to the study, and there he was, knee deep in work, writing under the faint light of a small lamp. He lifted his gaze from the papers and smiled at me.

- Oh, Leni… what a nice surprise! Come in, please. I’m just back from a business trip to Zantland. What brings you here so late, sweety? Is everything ok?

I ran to him and held him tight. The strain I had been standing during his absence seemed to vanish.

- Wow… this is what I call a warm welcome –he whispered, as he stroke my hair-
- This longing for you has made me very sad. Why didn’t you answer to my phone calls, e-mails and SMS? I hate you! –I said, holding him tighter-
- Aww… I’ve been very busy, love. I apologize for not being able to devote more time to you lately, but believe me, I simply couldn’t…
- I hate you – I protested weakly-
- You’re angry as a bag of wasps but you don’t hate me. –he said quietly-
- Yes I hate you! And I can’t get to sleep. –I said-

He laughed loudly. I expected he would prescribe me a sleeping pill or a hot glass of milk, but he gave me the most amazing answer instead:

- Then stay with me tonight, Leni. I know how to help you sleep and feel better. –he smiled at me- How does that grab you?
- I still hate you. –I said, still upset-
- Let’s make a deal, then, so that you can stop hating me.
- What deal?
- I’ll tell you a story. If I can make you smile, you stay with me tonight. Ok?
- Hm… don’t muddle me.
- I would never do that, silly. Just let me wipe that sorrow off your face. I can’t do with sad gals. I truly apologize.
- Ok. Go on.
- Let’s see… when I feel bluesy, just like you do now, I like to dream that I fly through the first warm winds in the early spring, when the sun rises and the morning fogs dissapear over the meadows. I could be a humble water drop too, flowing in a small river in the mountains, falling over the pebbles, sitting on a rock covered with moss and for a while after, falling on the ground. Sometimes I even dream I’m an asteroid. Oh have I ever told you the story of my happy encounter with a small blue planet?
- No –I answered -
- Hm... let me take my fountain pen and tell you the story.

He drew in the air a big shiny ball that grew in the shape of an asteroid; then, a group of small colourful planets at a considerable distance and said:

- Once upon a time, and a very good time it was, I was an asteroid in the endless width of the universe. I flew on my own for a million years. My life was a boring uninterrupted flow of energy and speed through the vault of heaven. Nothing ever happened to me. But a few million years ago, I saw a multicolour planetary system on my way. It was the first time that I could see something so wonderful since the Big Bang, when I was born. As you can imagine, I couldn’t resist the temptation. So I slightly changed my route and approached it. There was a bright yellow star in the middle of them –let’s call it ‘sun’- and some funny small balls –let’s call them ‘planets’- orbiting around it. As an asteroid, I had been observing these planets from afar and I desperately wanted to become a part of their harmonic movement and their peaceful cosmic dance.

He stoped for a while, as the heavenly bodies revolved around the sun and the asteroid approached them.

- I felt the irresistible desire to meet that system and become a part of it: that ignited the senses that gave a meaning to my long existence. So I brought my trajectory closer and spotted that lovely small blue planet. By the way, it was almost as blue as your shirt and your mood. So I quickly changed my flying path in the direction of that little beautiful blue sphere, that modified the orbit slightly, turning round to face me. That was certainly a good sign. I flew at incredible speed towards the little blue planet, feeling a strong and intense desire to reach it, and I realized that my efforts were successful: I hit that blue beauty, and we collided with the most genuine, warm feeling of happiness. There was an incredible release of energy in the firmament when that happened. Fireballs and shooting stars were propeled in all directions and a spray of shining lights filled the sky when the small blue planet and I reached our melting point.

As you can imagine, Ed's story brought a big smile to my face.

- Now Leni, the moral of the tale is this: everything is relative. That wonderful instant of happiness and burning passion was also the end of the dinosaurs; but that’s another story.

I couldn’t help but smile again, looking at him and at the wonderful motion picture displayed in the air showing repeatedly the shiny cosmic collision.

- And now that I can see this beautiful smile of yours, keep your promise and stay with me tonight –he said-


Of course, I kept my promise and stayed with him that night. We happily collided with the most genuine, warm feeling of happiness. There was an incredible release of energy when that happened. Fireballs and shooting stars were propeled in all directions and a spray of shining lights filled the room when we reached our melting point.

Some say happiness is,
a warm gun,
the greatest aim in life,
opium for the poor,
an ephemeral illusion,
the overexpression of hormones and neurotransmitters.

To me it's the wonderful feeling of loving and being loved. Especially after colliding with an asteroid.


Thanks to A. for sharing some of his wonderful ideas, which made possible this story.

Kynkybooks, revisited

- Don't say I didn't warn you, darling. -said Hellgirl making on of her star appearances.

I turned back. I hate it when people just harp on about "I told you this would happen" and things like that. It wears me out; physically and mentally.

- I told you about Ed. He won't publish your books just like that.
- Why not???
- Because he has something you and I don't have: decency and integrity. He is consistent and will never bring out your works if he doesn't think they're good enough. Getting published is neither easy nor simple. But he will be helping you, though. And I know what's going to happen.
- Oh, you know everything.
- Almost everything, my dear: The copyreader will read your manuscript just because Ed asked him to. That’s absolutely exceptional. I can’t believe you’re having such an amazing piece of luck: normally, he would have just ignored you. The vast majority of publishers just round file any unrequested work they get. They don’t do charity; they want to sell. But don’t think you’re sitting pretty just because you know the editor. Hopefully, if you attract his attention, he will read the first couple of pages and make an assessment. But it isn’t about being good enough, Leni: you have to be the best. Ed will remain off stage, but will ask to be informed at all times and will follow carefully the whole process. In the meantime... you'll start hating him... but you'll be fucked up about missing him. How do you like it? –she asked, as she was filing her nails-.

- Is this how it happened with Misty McGuire?

But Hellgirl had already blown me off, leaving me in mid-sentence, as usual.

Shame. I would have loved to hear how Misty McGuire became Ed's best selling author twenty years ago. I bet she shagged him like crazy. Gosh... what a despicable thought. She was more talented than me. That was the only reason.

The day after, I received a phone call from McGillicuddy, as expected.

- Ms Leni Qinan?
- Speaking.
- This is John McGillicuddy, from Kynkybooks. I'm calling you on behalf of Ed Davies, about your works. I'd like to meet you tomorrow if possible, to have a look at your stories.
- That would be fine.
- Please bring a copy of your best works. I'll be waiting for you at 10am at Kynkybooks. Is that ok with you?
- Sure! I'll be there.

The day after at 9.30AM, I was already at Kynkybooks. I'm not a good person to ask about punctuality and most times I'm either too late or too early. So I had a few nail-biting time at the waiting room. It was the second time I visited Ed's company. The new premises were impressive. I enjoyed the panoramic sea view during the half hour I had been early. At 10am sharp I walked to the reception desk and said:

-I have an appointment with Mr. McGillicuddy. My name is Leni Qinan.

Some seconds later, a hostess escorted me to the elevator; we got to the tenth floor and walked a long quiet corridor to McGillicuddy’s office. The door was open.

- Mr. McGillicuddy? Ms Qinan is here.
- Thanks. Leni, come in please.

He was probably thirty-something. Blond and very tall. He had glasses and a rather bohemian intellectual look. His desk was full of book and papers. Actually, he could have been the class swot.

- I always read over there –he said pointing at the sofa, on the other side of the room- Have a seat, please.

I sat beside him.

- This is my manuscript. –I said, very determined, giving him the book I had just ordered at the bookbinder’s store.
- Ed said to me that you write wonderfully weird and surrealistic stories. I like to read aloud, if you dont mind. –he said, opening the manuscript-. So “My name is Vilma”, right? –he said, after I sat next to him on the sofa.

- Right, that’s the name of the story.

He took the book and started reading:

“Once upon a time there was a mild and wet winter, and a group of Romanian gipsies playing melancholy airs at the metro exit.

They were there every morning, dressed in sombre black clothes, with colourful neck scarves, polishing up their brass trumpets until they shone and glistened. Lifting their hats, they greeted passers-by.

The first day they welcomed me with a rendering of “O sole mío”. It was amusing. For just two coins, those five street musicians would accompany me to the door of the library, dancing about as they played their trumpets. But my purse could not keep up with the pace and, as soon as my contributions ran out, they paid no more attention to me. From then on, the ungrateful wretches even pretended not to see me go by, feigning pride and dignity, as if they were in the streets of Bucharest and their performance as powerful as a scene from Kusturica’s latest film.

From October on, I had been going to the library at No. 5 Liberty Street, taking with me my laptop and backpack full of notebooks. Lovely calluses formed on my hands, which were rather more used to doing nothing.

In the reading room on the sixth floor, I began a study on censorship on children’s books, with the aim of aspiring to a position as an assistant lecturer at the University.

I took out my ID card in its plastic cover, with a photo which did not do me justice and showed it to the librarian. She seemed to have been born in a clone factory which supplied identical copies to the cinema and the theatre: of indeterminate age, she had dyed blond hair done up in a bun, and wore glasses. She was bad tempered too. She hissed a few words at me to let me know the limit of the decibels authorized, which was not to be exceeded under any circumstances. Then, she gave me permission to stay there indefinitely, just so long as I never raised my voice nor stole books.

I spent four months sitting in the same place, which, through use and in time, became mine: a seat at the head of the second table to the left, next to the notice board on the wall advertising the story competition which had been awarded five years before.

In the library at No. 5 Liberty Street, everything had finished, was on the point of becoming out of date or got old fast: the carvings in the wooden wall panels had accumulated the dust of ages and two large sphinxes in granite, which had nothing enigmatic about it at all, guarded the entrance, without any catches. The doors creaked on their hinges, the shutters applauded noisily, the floor squeaked painfully, and the inhabitants of the reading rooms seemed to be covered in a dark varnish, in the image of the sinister place ... just like it, in fact.

Every day, once I had opened up my computer, I looked at the familiar faces over the monitor: the thickset fellow on the left, gesticulating as he ordered his medicine books; my neighbour at the table: she seemed to be correcting boring mathematics exercises; the skinhead girl at the end of the room pouring over the driving test questions; the lanky fellow with his comics, who played computer games not far from me.

In just a few days, I devoured all the children’s books within reach: I swam in the North Sea with Andersen’s mermaid, I clambered up Rapunzel’s long hair and I shared Lemony Snicket’s unfortunate events. I tasted the Little Vampire’s sweet blood. I tried on the crown of Babar the elephant and tested Roald Dahl’s Matilda’s magical powers. I faced up to the fury of William Brown and his Outlaws. I won Willy Wonka’s prize in the chocolate factory. I met Wally and finished Michael Ende’s never-ending story.

It was 1st February and while a treacherous moment of boredom attacked me suddenly during my first coffee break of the day, a man came up to me to ask if he could share my table. Who would dare to interrupt my morning’s stupor and ask permission to invade my private space with the excuse that there was no place anywhere else? I looked up from my newspaper and saw that it was true: all the other tables were occupied. Out of politeness – or rather, kindness – I accepted.”

When McGillicuddy finished reading, he closed the book, stared at me and breathed deep.

- I'd appreciate your e-mailing me the next two pages. I’ll speak to you in a couple of days about it –he said formally, diving me his business card-

"Is that all there is?" -I thought-.

He was certainly tightlipped, but I had to accept it. He had taken full control of the situation.

We shook hands and I left his office. To be honest, I didn’t know what to think. So I decided not to think about it until I heard from him again.

As I made my way to the elevator, I heard someone say:

- Hi Leni.
- Hi Ed.

I turned back and I saw he smiled at me. I smiled back at him.

- I’ve just met McGillicuddy..
- I know, baby. Call me to tell me what are the results of the copyreading, ok?

I nodded. He would know about the results before I did. He stroke my cheek.

- I need to go now, sweety. I have a meeting.

I nodded.

He waved goodbye and smiled sadly. I watched him go; holding back the tears; keeping rooted to the spot until he disappeared.

Blind distrust

Since Captain James Cook imported from the South Seas the famous Polynesian word and it became an integral part of the English dictionary, the strongest social prohibitions received a new and genuine name: Taboo.

Breaking taboos can be considered objectionable, abhorrent, disgusting, loathsome, obnoxious, offensive, repugnant, revolting -and any other discrediting label you might think of- or even prohibited by law and severely penalised.

Luckily, some taboos from the past have already become old fashioned. The line that should never be crossed moved forwards and now many people –including you and I- are regularly stepping into the strict yesteryears of prohibition forbidden land. But those generally known as “common courtesy taboos” have nowadays more to do with etiquette and polite society than with prohibition. And unless you’re a political correctness freak, you probably ignore them as much as I do.

The word ‘taboo’ itself inspires a mishmash of ideas and controversies in my mind: uncertainty, embarrassment, unbearable curiosity, insecurity and … either acceptance or rejection.

(So now kids, run away before it’s too late. Don’t say I didn’t warn you).

Sex and taboos are often linked together. As long as there are adults consenting, whatever is done behind closed doors is their own business. And although an endless list of sexual acts is no longer considered taboo nowadays, there are still others that haven't quite made the transition into mainstream just yet.

I like to recreate my favourite taboos through fantasies. I adore them seasoned with a little kinkiness, if possible. Like dressing special; using gizmos; some slightly dirty talk; impossible positions; and a little roleplay, to make it funnier and more enjoyable.

But I’m not as kinky as you may think. I’m not a variety freak either. Yet Ed thinks I am. He mistakenly thinks he has to break every rule and do something new to me every single time we have sex, to keep me satisfied. If he just knew it takes so little to make me happy.

That fine Friday afternoon, after the leather jacket episode, I saw myself involved in a very surrealistic situation -for which I was entirely responsible- that started when Ed texted me this message:

“I loved what you did with the jacket. Come home tonight for more fun”

That sounded promising. I wondered what he had in mind.

We agreed to meet at 8PM at his place. I drove to the outskirts. Ed’s house was beautiful, but sometimes it looked to me like a haunted mansion. That evening there was something very ghoulish about it.

As usual, I was greeted by the ghost butler opening the door. We had our regular conversation for the tenth time that month:

- Good evening Ms Qinan. –he said-
- Good evening, Stoicescu. –I said-
- Please, be so kind as to come in. Lord Davies is waiting for you at the library.
- Thank you, I know the way.

When I entered the room, Ed was pouring himself a glass of whisky. It was very dark and warm too. There was a big piece of wood burning in the fireplace and the weak light projected macabre shadows on the walls.

- Hi sweety. Come in, please. Can I get you something to drink? –he asked-

I don’t drink normally, but I felt I had to accept this time.

- Hi, Ed. I’d like a whisky on the rocks, please.-I said-

He poured it in a highball glass that he handed to me.

- This is to thank you for what you did to me yesterday night, honey –he said, smiling-.
- What did I do to you yesterday night? –I asked, very intrigued-
- You don’t remember?
- Ehm… no.
- In bed.
- What did I do to you yesterday night in bed?
- You really don’t remember? –he asked, surprised-
- No, what did I do?
- You spooned with me and started stroking me and squeezing my dick. I couldn’t sleep anymore, but I liked it.
- I must have been asleep, because I don’t remember having done that. Anyway, I'm glad you liked it.
- Excellent. That makes it even more genuine and true.

I laughed.

- I wonder how did "Dick" become a nickname for "Richard"? I always found it very funny.
- I grew up already knowing the name “Dick” before I started using the lower case beginning word. Hm... have you ever thought what might happen if Dick were to meet Fanny? I'm pretty sure they would get on very well together.

We laughed.

I gulped the drink nervously. I was asking myself what he had called me for. I assumed it was not just to thank me for having squeezed his dick the night before with dedication and natural ability.

‘Come home tonight for more fun’, said his message. My glass was nearly empty.

- Want a refill on that, honey? –he asked-

I should have said ‘no’, but I nodded instead and he poured me a second drink. I started getting drunk. The whisky was enveloping my head, taking me over. He could have done whatever he wanted to me.

I still can’t remember how we got from there into his bed, probably due to my drunkeness. We shared his pajamas: he stripped to the waist and offered me his shirt. A woman always looks hot in a men’s pajama shirt, bare legs, nude buttcheeks, and the guy looks cool just wearing the pants, his torso naked.

I put my nose into the palm of my hand and breathed deep. I got a shot of male feromones directly into my brain. He had that special scent. That brought back a rush of memories and my subconscious started playing tricks with me. I vaguely remembered the night before… but not a trace of me squeezing anything.

- I want to tie you up, Leni. If you… want that too, of course. –he whispered-.

I hesitated for a split second. I had never done that before. “So what? –I thought-. There’s always a first time for everything. He wanted a little domination… “Ok, let him have his fun” –I thought to myself-.

He was staring at me, waiting for an answer.

- Ok, why not? –I answered, not totally convinced, nodding… ‘yes’-

He left the room. Five minutes later he was back, bringing two pairs of handcuffs, a blindfold and a rope.

- Are you sure you want to do this, sweety? Just for fun, as a game. –he asked-
- Yes, I’m sure. –I said, too fast-
- Lay on the bed, then.

I was going to do that, when he ordered:

- Naked.
- Oh, ok –I croaked-

Sometimes I find it real hard to say ‘NO’. And ‘NO’ is one among these words I would never dare say to him. Yet, I slowly walked over on trembling legs and sat down on the bed, as I removed the pajama shirt.

He tied the blindfold to my head so that I couldn't see anything. Then he took my right hand, pulled it back to the bed’s headboard and opened one of the handcuffs with a tiny key. I started worrying. I was not comfortable with the bondage kit.

- You won’t be able to see what to expect now, baby. This will enhance your remaining senses. And you will focus your attention on sound, smells and physical contact. –he said with a low voice-

OK, but…

What if he secretly wanted to film or photograph us having sex without me knowing? I would freak out.

What if he suddenly felt dizzy, fell backwards and hit his head badly in the middle of that? I would remain there for days until someone could report to the police about our disappearance and the cops would finally find my smiling skull and naked skeleton tied to Ed’s bed, his corpse laying on the floor without a trace of violence. Hey, that would be fun, wouldn’t it?

What if I hadn’t noticed his hidden sadistic side and I didn’t realise he was a psycopath serial killer who would do to me any imaginable horrible thing you could conjure up on the spot? That would be very fun too.

He had locked the handcuffs around my right wrist and headboard bar. He took then my left hand and pulled it back to the opposite side of the bed’s headboard.

- Are you completely sure? –he asked-
- Oh, yes. –I said-

My voice quavered as I spoke. I struggled to calm down and pretended I was feeling good. But no; I wasn’t. Moments of terrible doubt were appearing.

What if he was a dominating alpha male who enjoyed having violent sex with submissive, indulgent, defenceless, little females like me?

What if he was a bloodthirsty criminal disguised as a beautiful harmless editor who would lock his victims in the basement to kill them them after having given them ruthless, cruel, endless tortures?

And there I was. Naked on the bed; handcuffed; blindfolded and soon tied. It could be just a roleplay game, but I couldn’t control my wild thoughts. Suddenly, paranoia became so intense that I started asking myself why the hell I gave my consent to that game and thinking I was into serious shit.

I had heart palpitations and flashing visions of my blood splashing the walls of the room; I started sweating; I breathed painfully. When he tied the rope tightly around my ankles I yelled in panic; arched my back; kicked my legs into the air, trying desperately to escape. He was in shock and immediately stepped back.

- What happens? -he asked, very alarmed-
- Untie me, please, you're scaring me!!!

He quickly unlocked the handcuffs. I removed the blindfold, took my clothes and dashed out of the room. I got dressed hastily on my way out through the corridor and left the house without even saying goodbye.

When I arrived home I felt horrible. He must have thought that I was such a cockteaser. I couldn’t explain my sudden panic. And what was worse, I felt terribly stupid.

It was almost midnight when he called me on the phone.

- Leni. –he said-
- I’m sorry, Ed. I panicked, I don’t know why…
- It’s ok, never mind. –he said with a low voice-.

I sighed with frustration. I flushed with embarrassment. I tried to find the words but really, I couldn’t say anything.

- I have disappointed you. -I whispered-
- No, honey. You haven't. But I asked you three times if you were sure about that and you said 'yes'.

-I don't know what happened to me, Ed. All of a sudden I became paranoid and...

-You don't have to explain. Just learn to say ‘no’ if there’s something you don’t want to do. I won’t be disappointed if you refuse to do something I ask for. I hate nagged sex. That’s forcing. And I would never force you. Sex is not just always pleasing our partners, you know? You shouldn't have to do anything you don't like just to make a guy happy. There are better uses for your time and energy.

He put the telephone down in sadness and annoyance.

My mouth tasted sour. I couldn’t stand the pain.
Love takes hostages and I realised my life wasn't my own anymore.

I wrapped myself into the blanket, cried quietly in bed and drenching my pillow with tears, fell asleep.

“The streets of love” (The Rolling Stones).

Synapsis

I’ve been often told I’m a natural born empath. I was born like this, I guess. I’m intuitive and emotional and have always been able to pick up and channel the emotions and energies around me by simply glancing at them. Through an empathic bond, I can sense other people’s pain and emotions and see the inner beauty that shines from their souls. Far from belonging to the paranormal psychic’s tribe, I’d rather say that I have an expanded sensitivity that I feel like the inner power of healing with words and presence.

Over the years I have tried to shield myself so that I do not feel sad or miserable on account of others. Only a few got passed the walls I’ve built up to stop being hurt: the least harsh of words still can hurt me.

Feeling solo is beautiful. But nothing compares to feeling together. It takes two to tango, do the soul-to-soul synapsis and practice the natural ability to put oneself into another's shoes.

Talking about other people’s shoes; these Dr Mortensen black boots of Bob in my room were hurting my eyes like hell. You know, these awful heavy punk boots so out of fashion nowadays; yet he was so attached and fond of them that he wouldn’t do any throwing.

He left these huge boots at my place on a rainy day before the summer and never collected them. Just as if he had read my mind, he phoned me the day after my picture kissing Ed had appeared in all the Sandwichian tabloids.

- Len. –he said-
- Bob.-I said-
- Is that you and Ed Davies in the papers?
- Yes.

He kept quiet. I sensed pain and burning pressure in my heart. It wasn’t really what I was feeling but rather a faithful reflection of his sorrow inside me.

- I see. –he said, shortly-

He was not the kind to communicate openly, but to hold back words and emotions. By luck or misfortune, our moments of glory and our heart-gripping story of impossible love were fading away.

The irrefutable evidence of that was my indifferent, almost cruel, answer.

- What do I do with your Dr Mortensens? –I asked-
- What?
- Your boots.
- Oh fuck off.

He put the telephone down. That was rude, wasn’t it? But he missed his chance. And contrary to what they say… the postman never rings twice.

I didn’t regret it much. I always realized Bob was the non-committal type and knew this would happen, so I was ready to be ditched some day.

I put the boots in a big plastic bag. He had a 48 shoe size, and they were coming off my dustbin. So I decided to throw them away in the nearest bin, which was just around the corner.

On my way there, I had the strangest encounter: No sooner had I thrown Bob’s boots, a gipsy woman who came out of the blue followed me and gave me a little branch of rosemary. I dug into my pocket and handed her some coins, but she wouldn’t go. She whispered incomprehensible words, took my right hand and started telling my fortune. Her voice was rough and bewitching.

- You are a kind-hearted and good natured child. You come from a good mother and father …

Yes, I’m such a lovely little girl. I had heard that before.

I was intimidated by her terrifying look. Her big yellowish eyes were like the devil’s eyes. She had shiny jet black hair falling all along her back down to her thin waist, which was covered with veils. She was savagely beautiful and scary.

- You sometimes have a little bad temper, but it soon goes away. You're sad and alone, and some people envy you. Somebody gave you the evil eye, but I will take this curse away from you saying nine prayers to the Lord and offering up nine roses on the ninth day of the ninth month.

Evil eye? Uh oh, how come I didn’t know all that?

The religion thing –even the so-called universal or natural religion- gives me the shivers. And as far as I know, I neither suffered from supernatural bad luck nor had enemies looming up out of the mists of superstition. So it was a big fat NO, THANKS.

- That’s very nice, but I don’t pray. -I said-
- You should, me dear. All creatures have a place in the universe and God always listens to them.
- Well, for the moment I’m not interested in talking to Him. Or Her. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a lot to do. Goodnight.

I turned back to leave; I pulled my hand away from her, but she would never surrender, and seized it even stronger. She got closer, and staring into my eyes, said solemnly:

- You will give birth to a baby girl and live for ninety nine years. And now I will tell you the names of the two men in your life: There is a Robert who feels for you and an Edward who loves you from the bottom of his heart.

What a coincidence. Or was it perfectly planned? Whatever it was, I was not in the least interested in knowing how on earth she had found out about my bizarre triangular love situation.

When she stopped talking, she opened her hand and looked at me in the face. Her words became orders.

- You owe me 100 G. -she said-
- What?? You must be completely nuts.

Her eyes threw daggers at me. My hands were trembling with fear and I shivered down my spine. I thought she was going to conjure up some kind of terrible revenge, like cursing me and my descendants for five generations.

She suddenly changed her voice and whispered sad and softly:

- My dear child, you have to pay me so that I can take away from you the curse of the evil eye. Don’t be upset. Pay me happy my sweet, and misfortunes will disappear from your life.

Don't ask me why, but I gave her the money. I still don't understand why I did that. As soon as she had it, she ran away as quickly as if she had to break a speed record. I was ashamed, humiliated, afraid and furious at the same time. How stupid could I be?

I rushed back home, right on time to answer the phone.

- Hey sweety, I’m back in town. How do you feel? –asked Ed-

My heart skipped a beat. I smiled a big smile, as if he could see me.

- Ooh, It’s so nice to speak to you again, Ed. Now I feel much better, thanks –I said-
- Would you like to meet up tonight, babe?
- That would be cool! We could go to this very trendy new club… wait, I can’t remember the name… I have it on the tip of my tongue…
- No worries, Leni. I just want to be with you, that’s all.

But I was still thinking what the club’s name was.

- It's The Little Mermaid Club. Like the fairytale from Andersen.

He was quiet. And I bet he smiled.

- Do you know that tale, Ed? –I asked-
- Yes, but I’d like to hear it from your lips. Why don’t you come to my place? We’ll lay on the white leather couch, view the crashing waves out the window while we warm up by the fireplace and have a glass of red wine… and you'll whisper The Little Mermaid Tale into my ear…

WOW. That sounded so romantic.

That night I ended up telling a fairytale to the child in him. My little mermaid fell in love with the prince, but...

Was never betrayed or heartbroken;
Never threw herself into the sea at the break of dawn;
Her body never dissolved into foam;
She never turned into a spirit or became a daughter of the air.

She remained by her prince and they lived happily ever after.

- Why did you change the end of the story, Leni? -he laughed-
- Because I like happy endings -I said-

I rested my head on his naked chest. My thousand little empath sensors started feeling intense waves of love like I'd never felt before.

And they were directed to me.

"Thank you" (Dido)

Say 'cheese'

I didn’t even suspect that some days after the tennis match my life would be changing completely.

It was Wednesday; just a normal working day. I woke up at 7 AM, as usual. I had a sudden flashback of Ed and our incident with the hidden reporter at the Arena. After we saw the camera flashes and realised we were being photographed, Ed escorted me to my box in the Arena, making sure Bob was not looking. When the match finished, I went back home. I had a thorough look, but I failed to find any trace of a reporter; until that fatal Wednesday.

I took my daily shower; had breakfast in the kitchen as I listened to the news on the background and checked my e-mails; as I usually did every morning.

Then I drove to Dumbass premises, just like every day; but this was not going to be a normal day: As soon as I left my flat, I started noticing strange things.

I had the impression that two guys on a motorbike were following me through the streets. I looked in the rear-view mirror. Nothing seemed to be suspicious there. I thought I was getting a bit paranoid, so I tried to calm down and followed my way.

But five minutes later, I spotted two guys in a car behind me. They were equipped with cameras and huge zoom lenses and were shooting in my direction. I moved several times to the next lane, but couldn’t shake them off.

When I arrived to my office, I had the very shock of my life: Leslie, the assistant, was waiting for me.

- Leni, you may want to have a look at the papers before Big Cheese arrives –she said, pointing at the newspapers-.

I took The Sandwich Gazette and I saw with horror, on front page, next to the Orsinian candidate to the Presidential elections’ picture, a snapshot of Ed and me French kissing at the Arena terrace the day of the tennis match. The caption read:

“Plutocratic Burdish publishing tycoon Ed Davies kisses passionately unknown Sandwichian girl: Cinderella dreams come true!”

Nerds. My face was slightly blurred in the picture, but it was not hard to recognise me. I collapsed on my chair.

- Wow Leni… are you really going out with Ed Davies? –she asked in amazement-

I was too nervous to answer that question.

Leslie had piled up the tabloids, local newspapers and gossip magazines that had published that picture on their front page. There was a load of them. I felt a strange cocktail of rage and embarrassment inside. What an unfair and flagrant violation of our privacy.

The whole world and his wife would see these pictures and I would have to explain things that were still at a very early stage. I was overwhelmed. It was blowing my mind. I would be the butt of many of the jokes at Dumbass street that morning. And what was even worse: That would be affecting my relationship with Ed; and we hadn’t even started.

He predicted this would be happening. I needed to speak to him, but he was in Burdishland, on a business trip. I called him and got his voicemail, so I decided to phone his secretary, the pandimensional Lotte Artmann-Rottenmeier (a Zantlander lady of indeterminate age, who had dyed blond hair done up in a bun, and wore granny glasses. And boy, she had a face like a slapped arse).

- Can I speak to Ed Davies, please? –I asked her-
- I’m sorry but he’s on a business trip this week –she answered shortly-
- When you speak to him, would you be kind enough to tell him that I need to talk to him? It’s very urgent. This is Leni Qinan, my cell phone number is…
- I have your number, Ms Qinan. I’ll give him your message as soon as I speak to him.
- Thank you. –I said shortly, putting the cellphone down-

She hated me. I knew from the very beginning we would never be good friends. That happened some months ago, when I first visited Ed’s office. She hated me just because I used the word ‘secretary’, instead of ‘assistant’ when I referred to her. (Does it make that much difference? Even to the point of being offended?)

- I'm his Personal Assistant. –she said, projecting an air of feline self-satisfaction-
- Ehm… ok, I’d like to speak to the secretary, then –I replied. I was not going to let my arm be twisted-
- He doesn’t have a secretary, but a Personal Assistant; and it’s me –she insisted, smirking-

I knew very well what she meant. I knew she was more likely to be found in the boardroom preparing a presentation than in the kitchen preparing a morning latte. But I was not into the Women’s Lib jargon little game.

Women’s Lib is the biggest lie ever believed. And secretaries will always be secretaries; whether you call them administrative assistants or associates; that doesn’t make much difference to me.

It’s the minds of those who consider secretarial work as a second class occupation what needs to be changed, not the name. Words have the sense we want them to have. With all due respect for the secretaries: what really counts is recognition for their hard work behind the scenes in an office. Not what they call them.

The word ‘secretary’ derives from ‘secret’ and relates to a person overseeing business confidentially, usually for a powerful individual. In my opinion, that concept is neither sexist nor politically incorrect in itself. And it’s good for both men and women in the profession.

But inexplicably, it has been renamed "Administrative Professional" to highlight the increased responsibility of today's secretary and other administrative workers, and to avoid embarrassment to those who out of political correctness believe that the word "secretary" refers only to women or to unskilled workers.

So obviously, Frau Artmann-Rottenmeier was one of those who were ashamed to be the Chairman’s Secretary, but happy to be the Chairman’s Executive Assistant. Live and learn.

I was in distress and texted Ed: ‘Our last kiss appeared in the papers and gossip mags this morning’.

Five minutes later he called me.

- I got your message, baby. I’m very sorry for that.
- It’s not your fault, Ed. Four guys with cameras and zoom lenses followed me this morning as I was driving to work and took pictures of me.
- I’ll bring my travel date forward. Not sure yet when I’ll be back, I still need to sort out some things here…
- Ed, I’m very scared at the way things are turning!

At this point I broke down and started crying. That was just my way of unlocking the stored tension. I was very worried about the consequences. They could even stretch the truth about him and me. Would I have to be running away for the rest of my life?

- Hey love… we’ll be alright. I promise to take the first flight back, ok?
- Ok. –I answered, feeling better-
- I love you, baby. –he said-
- I love you too. –I replied, out of fondness, rather gratefulness-
- Oh, good. Finally, you said the L word!

Well, it seemed so. Eloquent silence on my side. But I was saved by the bell.

- Ed, I need to go now. Big Cheese is arriving.
- Ok, sweety. Don’t forget that I love you. Chin up. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Big Cheese looked serious. I saw him go into his office. He stood there for half an hour very quiet, until he called me on the phone.

- Q, come to my office, please.
- Ok.

Jeez. Things didn’t look good. I entered his office, sat on the guest chair, knowing what I would be hearing next: the morning papers were on his desk.

- Holy crap! These bastards took one hell of a snapshot –he said, pointing at the picture that was already so familiar to me-
-Indeed –I said, looking down-
- Hey, Q. This is not the end of the world, ok? Tell me something. In all honesty, are you really going out with Ed Davies?

Big Cheese enjoyed gossiping, but would never admit it, like men often do. That seemed to be the million dollar question. I didn’t know the answer myself.

- Some months ago I sent him three stories I had written and asked him if they were suitable for publication. He was interested; we met and then got involved in some sort of romance. I see him, but I’m not sure whether we’re dating on a regular basis or not. That’s the plain truth. –I said-

He looked very surprised.

- I never knew you wanted to become a writer, Q!
- I’m an amateur. I do it just for fun. But some time ago I felt I had to try and publish a book.
- I see. Ed Davies is a very rich and powerful publisher. You know that, don’t you? –he asked-
- Yes.
- If you see him, you will become an involuntary public figure, Q. That’s a real cockup, I know this very well. You will have to change your lifestyle a bit and bear a number of unpleasant situations; you have no choice but live with that if you maintain your relationship with Ed. Have you spoken to him about it?
- Yes, he is in Burdishland now for work, but he’s taking the first flight back.
- Good. He’s used to this shit, but you’re not; and you will need a lot of help to overcome this situation. Of course, you have all my support.
- Thank you. I really appreciate this.

We continued talking for almost one hour. That was the longest conversation I ever had with Big Cheese. When I left his office, I tried to focus on my work and forget temporarily about the whole thing. But it was hard. My cellphone was going all the time, so I decided to put it off.

It was almost midday when Big Cheese came over to see me and asked me to prepare some documents for Big Shot. Leslie, the secretary, was also there. Suddenly, the security guy knocked on my door.

- Leni, there´s something for you here –he said-.

Behind him, there was this guy from the flower shop who came in with a huge beautiful bunch of red and orange daisies. He handed it to me and said very loud, so that everybody could hear:

- Miss Leni Qinan? This is for you, from Interflower Burdishland.

My heart started beating so fast that I thought it was escaping from my chest. My legs became suddenly so weak and I started sweating and shivering, but I managed to hide it. Leslie and Big Cheese looked at the flowers and smiled quietly.

I was overwhelmed.

- Who’s gonna sign the voucher? –asked the flower shop guy-.

I couldn’t do that. So petrified I was.

- Oh, I will –said Leslie on the spot, snatching the voucher from his hand-

I put the flowers on my desk just pretending nothing had happened, turned to Big Cheese and said with a trembling voice:

- Eehm… where were we…?.

The truth is that my heart was beating like a machine gun. Big Cheese finished telling me what he wanted me to do but -of course- I didn’t even understand what he was saying. He knew that and left, after having a further look at the flowers.

- Leni… who sends you flowers from Burdishland? –asked Leslie-

I sat on my chair, leaned back and tried to calm down.

- Who do you think? –I asked-
- Ed Davies!!! WOW!!! This is so fucking romantic!!! –she shouted-

Soon my office was full of people who wanted to see the flowers and ask if Ed and I were really going out. I took the small envelope containing Ed’s message and managed to leave. I ran through the corridors, and when I felt I was on my own, I opened it, took the card and read the message:

“I’ll take care of everything, love. Meanwhile... say 'cheese'.”

"Come rain or shine" (BB King & Eric Clapton)