I slowly folded the handkerchief the man handed me at the funeral. I noticed the embroidered initials and unfolded the material to see what the letters were. CPB. I looked up to see the handsome stranger, the owner of the handkerchief, walked away from the crowd and wondered what the initials stood for, in terms of his name. The crowd started to disperse and I remained fixed where I stood. My eyes welled up with tears and I decided to wait until the crowd was no more before I head towards my car. And when I was all alone, I allowed the tears to fall. Why I was crying, I didn't know. It wasn't like I was going to miss him. And it wasn't like I loved him but I felt he had so much to live for and was too young. It didn't matter that we never saw eye to eye when he was alive. And it didn't matter that there were times I wished him dead. What mattered was that we respected each other's distance and were both adamant that we kept it. Alas. Now the distance is permanent. And I will never wonder again if there will be another unannounced visit or unexpected phone call that came too late at nights. When I was satisfied that no one else was around the grave site, I leaned forward to look down at his lowered casket and as I used the stranger's handkerchief to wipe my tears away, a sigh escaped my lips. The sigh was followed by a satisfied smile. The police will never know what happened. And I don't care if they do, because my name was cleared. It wasn't me who changed the blanks to real bullets. Do I care that someone did the unthinkable? Yes, of course I do, but I realized now that he's actually gone, that perhaps, he is better off dead, than alive, even if I thought initially, that he was too young to die. I walked towards my car, got in and started the engine.
That night, I dreamed of a single white rose. Its stem was long and had three leaves I angrily plucked off, and then his hand snatched the rose from my hands forcefully, the thorns ripped through my fingers. He immediately gave me a malicious smile when he saw the blood that started to form on my hands. He did not even ask me if my hands were alright. He turned his back on me as I wiped the blood on my dress. I tried to ran after him but it seemed his strides placed more distance than my running legs can cover. How was that possible? I called out his name and he wouldn't turn, so I called out again, and louder the second time. He finally stopped walking and when I was near him, he turned towards me and spoke, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. I read his lips as he mouthed off the word "why". I smiled sweetly at him and replied, "because you deserved it".
I knocked over the lamp on my nightstand when I bolted right up from my sleep. I had an overwhelming feeling that my nights will be filled with strange dreams from his death. Better off dead were becoming synonymous to freedom and sacrifice, all of a sudden. Here I am, 28 years of age, the age when I am supposed to exercise my own independence after many years of oppression from the hands of my mentor, a Svengali who balked at nothing to tell me of my potential, only to discover, he only had envy, and control in mind. He is dead now. No more of him and yet the son of a bitch still haunts my subconscious. There was no real love between us. It was always a competition. And I love challenges but life isn't supposed to be a continuity of one battle after another. One grows weary from all that. There comes a time you want just simple complacency. I reached out to look at the time on my mobile and realized that I still have 3 hours to go before I got ready for work. Damn the dreams that wake you up from an Ambien induced slumber. I pushed my head down on my pillow, breathing angrily as I chase sleep to overcome me. This will be futile as I curse him, his memory and his idea as I allowed the reluctant sleep to come to me. And it won't come. My hand went down to that area below my belly, between my thighs and my middle finger brushed my panties to the side as my fingers searched the small pearl of my sex. Angry, hostile masturbation. Ha! This is totally unlike me. I cannot even get myself wet, to cooperate with my intention of subduing my overactive anger for being snatched from my slumber to be brought up to this ridiculous awareness of him! Then I allowed my psyche to drift to the moment I pulled that trigger and the real bullets piercing his heart, as my finger rubbed my sex furiously and then I came. My body shaking from the explosive, angry orgasm I just gave it. "Fuck you, asshole, I'm glad you're dead!" Was the last coherent thought that came to me before passing out.
South Park's Kyle Broflovsky's cute and cartoon voice singing "If I had one wish for Cuba" loudly came onto my mobile as it signaled me to haul my ass off to the showers. It was 6:30 in the morning and I had to be at the office by 8. My body felt sluggish as I half crawled to my bathroom. My hair was all over the place and I wished I could just chop all of it off. I reached the sink and peered into the mirror which hides my medicine cabinet behind it. I see my angular face looking back at me. My small but pointy nose wrinkled at the sight of my bloodshot eyes and I made a face to express my disdain of my own reflection in the mirror. Some would say I am pretty. Some would even say beautiful, but at this moment, all I see is lethargy. I am tired. If I were put on a rock at my current condition, I will gladly sleep, never to wake up again. I could welcome the space and time of catatonic state without so much a glimpse of the waking world. But, hell be damned, I need to get my ass to the office for my deadline on that neurosurgeon's new contract. Irony of irony, these imbecile physicians, whose many lives depend on their operating tables and their scalpel equipped paws cannot add 2 plus 2 without getting migraines, when it came to finances. Their finances. Not mine, not the average Joe without scalpels slicing, stabbing into others' abdomens, chest cavities, fleshy substances hiding pertinent organs drawing oxygen and exhaling carbon monoxides. 2 plus fucking 2, I muttered to myself and they are all empty caverns of mouth agape Simians, either drooling on the decimals I recite to them or my ass that has defied gravity since I first discovered the very same ass has a calling of its own. And the only thing it has to do with numbers are the men who wanted to run their tongues on it, or graze it with their teeth, subsequently injuring themselves with the thought of never being able to swallow it but only taste what it could be. Innate cannibalistic sense, to me is simply a surreptitious excuse of elevated animals we all know as us. Simply us. I shook my head at the morbid and semi depraved thoughts going through my mind as I squeezed the toothpaste onto my Sonicare.
I stepped into my 3 inch heel Mary Janes and twirled with feigned exuberance in front of my mirror, deciding whether I should put my hair in a chignon or leave it as is, coiffed nicely with the wild waves of Ombré cascading down my back. Fuck this, I huffed to myself, calculating in my head the percentage of any likelihood the ill-equipped comprehension level of the neurosurgeon would venture to my head of hair once he had a gander of my contract proposition of numbers, anyway. How old was he again? Ah, that's right. He was in his early forties, the ones I like to call sexless and lifeless Doogie Howsers of the world. The medical geniuses who peaked at the age of 17 and thought themselves gods in their twenties. I undid one of the top buttons of my navy blue chiffon blouse and figured a little flash of cleavage will go unnoticed by the doctor too, once he realized how many decimals were contained in my budget projection of his practice, once he is free from the hospital's umbrella of policy and regulation. He will fucking love me, I just know it and then he will wish he never knew me once my charges arrive on schedule, at his address, for two years, never missing a monthly sequence. I grabbed my briefcase and headed out the door.
I was double bolting my door when my Russian neighbor startled me. He was a pudgy old man with an overtly friendly disposition. I remember the first time I ran into him at my condominium's driveway and almost ran over his little poodle, Sergei. It was a comedic and tragic scenario. Comedic because I couldn't stop apologizing and calling him "babushka" which really meant grandmother, rather than grandfather and tragic because he really wanted to bawl and curse me mercilessly for my careless action, but ended up just laughing, tears in his eyes as he tried to shut me up from calling him babushka. "Holy fuck, Mr. Dobrovsky!" I snarled at him when he tapped my shoulders. "Don't fucking sneak behind me like that, I almost tazed your ass!" I barked at him. He gave me that hurt look while my mouth spewed a "sailor would blush" type of language. His kindly demeanor was admonishing and judging. I can just imagine the words going through his mind, the lecture he wanted to give me but I was running late and so I gave him that "yeah, yeah, I know, such a pretty girl shouldn't swear like me" look, making my eyes dramatically wide as I put my hand up to him. An acknowledgement of my defeat and concession to whatever he wanted to say had he been able to formulate English words as easily as Americans could, instead, he just gave me a disappointed but mildly amused look. "Bye bye" was all he could say as I got in my car, while waving like the eunuch version of the queen of England. I grinned. I felt a little bad for giving my neighbor a seemingly innocent but deliberate peek of my offensive western upbringing. I either shock or dismay. Today, I may even kill.
I made my way to Interstate 5 which is usually bumper to bumper. Even with the Clean Air Program the goddamn ecology departments in the state exercise like some damn legislation to will upon the commuters, the smell of exhaust and the fumes of diesel emanating from the mufflers of the vehicles were always part of the air I breathe each morning. My Coco Chanel mixes with gasoline and even if the air conditioning is turned on in my car, the stench of traffic permeates the inside of my car. I tap my manicured fingers on the outer edge of the steering wheel while I recite the neurosurgeon's name. I want it to escape my lips in a breezy tone. I want it to sound like his name was just a drop of dime in my massive files of successful physicians owning their own practices at present, after they have employed my services to separate them from the bureaucracy of being just a hospital's staff. Dr. Christopher Phillip Brenner. I toyed with the idea of addressing him as Chris, during my meeting with him. Would it be too impetuous? Would it be too breezy? Casual? Or would he find it disrespectful? Truth of the matter is, I could care less what he thought. All I am anticipating is the way his jaw will drop to the floor the moment he hears 3.4 million dollars on the first quarter of the year, give or take 3 additional surgeries pro-Bono. Charity begets charity in his pocket. And mine. Ah, I don't even need to sell it. His specialty sells itself. "Doogie, wait until you get a load of me," I happily and smugly thought to myself. I was in that confident thought when unexpectedly, I thought I saw him in the corner of the turnpike. He was standing there, wearing his gray suit, his expensive RayBan atop his golden hair and his Bluetooth in his left ear pacing back and forth besides his S Class Mercedes Benz! No, it can't be him! I shot him and buried him just yesterday! I quickly turned my head as my car passed the turnpike and when I returned my eyes in front of my car, I almost slammed into the red Toyota before me. I hastily kicked my leg on the brake pedal before I crashed into the car ahead of me barely leaving half a foot distance between my car and the other driver's car. "Fuck!" I heard myself cursed. And my venti cup of Starbuck's Mocha came splashing all over my lap, soaking my expensive Donna Karan, black, pencil skirt.
And the worse happened, as if my Monday wasn't shitty as it was when it began. The damn BMW behind me reached the tail end of my car bouncing me forward as the beemer rear ended my car. I sat there feeling my head was just snapped off my neck, dumbfounded. I didn't feel any pain and thank god my foot never released the brake pedal even on impact, that I avoided hitting the Toyota in front of me. The driver of the BMW opened his door and I can see him heading towards the driver side of my car. "Miss, are you alright? You braked suddenly, I had little time to react." The man said as he neared my driver's window. He sounded contrite but also annoyed. I turned my face to look at him, my hand slowly reaching up to my visor to get my registration and as he peered closer, I realized it was him! "You, but, you're dead!" I mumbled. And as I adjusted my focus on the man's face, I realized my eyes were playing tricks on me. I heard the driver say that we were both lucky the impact wasn't as hard or we would both be dead. I tried to unbuckle my seat belt to get out of my car but my arms wouldn't cooperate. I felt faint and there was a dull pain creeping up from my lower back up to my neck.
I managed to take my leave from the accident. It was minor and I had no broken bones or concussion, and of course I am not a doctor and know I will regret diagnosing myself in the future. Maybe Dr. Brenner can examine me when I see him, who knows? The man who rear ended me was satisfied that I am fully insured as he went his merry way after obtaining my information. He just wanted to make sure his BMW will be returned to its sleek condition without him spending any money on its repair. I obliged to pay for all damages even though in the state of Washington, a rear end normally awards the pink ticket to the hitter. It wasn't worth my time. And the State Trooper who was called was an attractive do gooder, there was no time to argue out the circumstance of the accident, peering into his beautiful blue eyes. I had no time to get lost in those pools because I had Dr. Brenner waiting for our scheduled meeting. I drove straight to my exit after cutting from Interstate 5 to 405 and entered the spacious underground garage of Overlake Hospital. I looked at my Bulova and was glad I still had a few minutes to change my skirt before my face to face with the neurosurgeon. I dashed in the ladies' room located on the first floor and wiggled out of my skirt as two other women applying their make up looked on at my semi-nakedness. One of them actually looked embarrassed for me. It was embarrassment with a tinge of envy. I am not conceited or arrogant but I know the look women give other women when they see or behold something they wish they have. Hell, I have looked at other women that way. I wickedly grinned at the envious one as I lifted one leg off the skirt around my ankles and turned my backside to her as I opened my briefcase with the spare skirt inside. I knew she was checking out my cellulite free ass. I stepped inside my new skirt and slowly wiggled my hips into it while winking at the other woman who just looked at me with approval. I tossed my coffee soaked old skirt in the trash and consoled myself with the thought of my percentage from the neurosurgeon's profit. I stepped out into the lobby and pressed the elevator button, got in the car and pressed the 6th floor, for my meeting. The front desk girl was personable and directed me to the medical conference room where Dr. Brenner was waiting. As the girl announced my arrival the tall, dark haired man turned to face me. To my delight and surprise, Dr. Brenner was the handsome stranger who handed me his handkerchief at the funeral yesterday. My heart did a somersault when he smiled and walked towards me, his hand extended for a handshake. I smiled back and met his hand. "Chris Brenner" He said, exactly the way I wanted to make his name come out from my lips. Breezy.
That night, I dreamed of a single white rose. Its stem was long and had three leaves I angrily plucked off, and then his hand snatched the rose from my hands forcefully, the thorns ripped through my fingers. He immediately gave me a malicious smile when he saw the blood that started to form on my hands. He did not even ask me if my hands were alright. He turned his back on me as I wiped the blood on my dress. I tried to ran after him but it seemed his strides placed more distance than my running legs can cover. How was that possible? I called out his name and he wouldn't turn, so I called out again, and louder the second time. He finally stopped walking and when I was near him, he turned towards me and spoke, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. I read his lips as he mouthed off the word "why". I smiled sweetly at him and replied, "because you deserved it".
I knocked over the lamp on my nightstand when I bolted right up from my sleep. I had an overwhelming feeling that my nights will be filled with strange dreams from his death. Better off dead were becoming synonymous to freedom and sacrifice, all of a sudden. Here I am, 28 years of age, the age when I am supposed to exercise my own independence after many years of oppression from the hands of my mentor, a Svengali who balked at nothing to tell me of my potential, only to discover, he only had envy, and control in mind. He is dead now. No more of him and yet the son of a bitch still haunts my subconscious. There was no real love between us. It was always a competition. And I love challenges but life isn't supposed to be a continuity of one battle after another. One grows weary from all that. There comes a time you want just simple complacency. I reached out to look at the time on my mobile and realized that I still have 3 hours to go before I got ready for work. Damn the dreams that wake you up from an Ambien induced slumber. I pushed my head down on my pillow, breathing angrily as I chase sleep to overcome me. This will be futile as I curse him, his memory and his idea as I allowed the reluctant sleep to come to me. And it won't come. My hand went down to that area below my belly, between my thighs and my middle finger brushed my panties to the side as my fingers searched the small pearl of my sex. Angry, hostile masturbation. Ha! This is totally unlike me. I cannot even get myself wet, to cooperate with my intention of subduing my overactive anger for being snatched from my slumber to be brought up to this ridiculous awareness of him! Then I allowed my psyche to drift to the moment I pulled that trigger and the real bullets piercing his heart, as my finger rubbed my sex furiously and then I came. My body shaking from the explosive, angry orgasm I just gave it. "Fuck you, asshole, I'm glad you're dead!" Was the last coherent thought that came to me before passing out.
South Park's Kyle Broflovsky's cute and cartoon voice singing "If I had one wish for Cuba" loudly came onto my mobile as it signaled me to haul my ass off to the showers. It was 6:30 in the morning and I had to be at the office by 8. My body felt sluggish as I half crawled to my bathroom. My hair was all over the place and I wished I could just chop all of it off. I reached the sink and peered into the mirror which hides my medicine cabinet behind it. I see my angular face looking back at me. My small but pointy nose wrinkled at the sight of my bloodshot eyes and I made a face to express my disdain of my own reflection in the mirror. Some would say I am pretty. Some would even say beautiful, but at this moment, all I see is lethargy. I am tired. If I were put on a rock at my current condition, I will gladly sleep, never to wake up again. I could welcome the space and time of catatonic state without so much a glimpse of the waking world. But, hell be damned, I need to get my ass to the office for my deadline on that neurosurgeon's new contract. Irony of irony, these imbecile physicians, whose many lives depend on their operating tables and their scalpel equipped paws cannot add 2 plus 2 without getting migraines, when it came to finances. Their finances. Not mine, not the average Joe without scalpels slicing, stabbing into others' abdomens, chest cavities, fleshy substances hiding pertinent organs drawing oxygen and exhaling carbon monoxides. 2 plus fucking 2, I muttered to myself and they are all empty caverns of mouth agape Simians, either drooling on the decimals I recite to them or my ass that has defied gravity since I first discovered the very same ass has a calling of its own. And the only thing it has to do with numbers are the men who wanted to run their tongues on it, or graze it with their teeth, subsequently injuring themselves with the thought of never being able to swallow it but only taste what it could be. Innate cannibalistic sense, to me is simply a surreptitious excuse of elevated animals we all know as us. Simply us. I shook my head at the morbid and semi depraved thoughts going through my mind as I squeezed the toothpaste onto my Sonicare.
I stepped into my 3 inch heel Mary Janes and twirled with feigned exuberance in front of my mirror, deciding whether I should put my hair in a chignon or leave it as is, coiffed nicely with the wild waves of Ombré cascading down my back. Fuck this, I huffed to myself, calculating in my head the percentage of any likelihood the ill-equipped comprehension level of the neurosurgeon would venture to my head of hair once he had a gander of my contract proposition of numbers, anyway. How old was he again? Ah, that's right. He was in his early forties, the ones I like to call sexless and lifeless Doogie Howsers of the world. The medical geniuses who peaked at the age of 17 and thought themselves gods in their twenties. I undid one of the top buttons of my navy blue chiffon blouse and figured a little flash of cleavage will go unnoticed by the doctor too, once he realized how many decimals were contained in my budget projection of his practice, once he is free from the hospital's umbrella of policy and regulation. He will fucking love me, I just know it and then he will wish he never knew me once my charges arrive on schedule, at his address, for two years, never missing a monthly sequence. I grabbed my briefcase and headed out the door.
I was double bolting my door when my Russian neighbor startled me. He was a pudgy old man with an overtly friendly disposition. I remember the first time I ran into him at my condominium's driveway and almost ran over his little poodle, Sergei. It was a comedic and tragic scenario. Comedic because I couldn't stop apologizing and calling him "babushka" which really meant grandmother, rather than grandfather and tragic because he really wanted to bawl and curse me mercilessly for my careless action, but ended up just laughing, tears in his eyes as he tried to shut me up from calling him babushka. "Holy fuck, Mr. Dobrovsky!" I snarled at him when he tapped my shoulders. "Don't fucking sneak behind me like that, I almost tazed your ass!" I barked at him. He gave me that hurt look while my mouth spewed a "sailor would blush" type of language. His kindly demeanor was admonishing and judging. I can just imagine the words going through his mind, the lecture he wanted to give me but I was running late and so I gave him that "yeah, yeah, I know, such a pretty girl shouldn't swear like me" look, making my eyes dramatically wide as I put my hand up to him. An acknowledgement of my defeat and concession to whatever he wanted to say had he been able to formulate English words as easily as Americans could, instead, he just gave me a disappointed but mildly amused look. "Bye bye" was all he could say as I got in my car, while waving like the eunuch version of the queen of England. I grinned. I felt a little bad for giving my neighbor a seemingly innocent but deliberate peek of my offensive western upbringing. I either shock or dismay. Today, I may even kill.
I made my way to Interstate 5 which is usually bumper to bumper. Even with the Clean Air Program the goddamn ecology departments in the state exercise like some damn legislation to will upon the commuters, the smell of exhaust and the fumes of diesel emanating from the mufflers of the vehicles were always part of the air I breathe each morning. My Coco Chanel mixes with gasoline and even if the air conditioning is turned on in my car, the stench of traffic permeates the inside of my car. I tap my manicured fingers on the outer edge of the steering wheel while I recite the neurosurgeon's name. I want it to escape my lips in a breezy tone. I want it to sound like his name was just a drop of dime in my massive files of successful physicians owning their own practices at present, after they have employed my services to separate them from the bureaucracy of being just a hospital's staff. Dr. Christopher Phillip Brenner. I toyed with the idea of addressing him as Chris, during my meeting with him. Would it be too impetuous? Would it be too breezy? Casual? Or would he find it disrespectful? Truth of the matter is, I could care less what he thought. All I am anticipating is the way his jaw will drop to the floor the moment he hears 3.4 million dollars on the first quarter of the year, give or take 3 additional surgeries pro-Bono. Charity begets charity in his pocket. And mine. Ah, I don't even need to sell it. His specialty sells itself. "Doogie, wait until you get a load of me," I happily and smugly thought to myself. I was in that confident thought when unexpectedly, I thought I saw him in the corner of the turnpike. He was standing there, wearing his gray suit, his expensive RayBan atop his golden hair and his Bluetooth in his left ear pacing back and forth besides his S Class Mercedes Benz! No, it can't be him! I shot him and buried him just yesterday! I quickly turned my head as my car passed the turnpike and when I returned my eyes in front of my car, I almost slammed into the red Toyota before me. I hastily kicked my leg on the brake pedal before I crashed into the car ahead of me barely leaving half a foot distance between my car and the other driver's car. "Fuck!" I heard myself cursed. And my venti cup of Starbuck's Mocha came splashing all over my lap, soaking my expensive Donna Karan, black, pencil skirt.
And the worse happened, as if my Monday wasn't shitty as it was when it began. The damn BMW behind me reached the tail end of my car bouncing me forward as the beemer rear ended my car. I sat there feeling my head was just snapped off my neck, dumbfounded. I didn't feel any pain and thank god my foot never released the brake pedal even on impact, that I avoided hitting the Toyota in front of me. The driver of the BMW opened his door and I can see him heading towards the driver side of my car. "Miss, are you alright? You braked suddenly, I had little time to react." The man said as he neared my driver's window. He sounded contrite but also annoyed. I turned my face to look at him, my hand slowly reaching up to my visor to get my registration and as he peered closer, I realized it was him! "You, but, you're dead!" I mumbled. And as I adjusted my focus on the man's face, I realized my eyes were playing tricks on me. I heard the driver say that we were both lucky the impact wasn't as hard or we would both be dead. I tried to unbuckle my seat belt to get out of my car but my arms wouldn't cooperate. I felt faint and there was a dull pain creeping up from my lower back up to my neck.
I managed to take my leave from the accident. It was minor and I had no broken bones or concussion, and of course I am not a doctor and know I will regret diagnosing myself in the future. Maybe Dr. Brenner can examine me when I see him, who knows? The man who rear ended me was satisfied that I am fully insured as he went his merry way after obtaining my information. He just wanted to make sure his BMW will be returned to its sleek condition without him spending any money on its repair. I obliged to pay for all damages even though in the state of Washington, a rear end normally awards the pink ticket to the hitter. It wasn't worth my time. And the State Trooper who was called was an attractive do gooder, there was no time to argue out the circumstance of the accident, peering into his beautiful blue eyes. I had no time to get lost in those pools because I had Dr. Brenner waiting for our scheduled meeting. I drove straight to my exit after cutting from Interstate 5 to 405 and entered the spacious underground garage of Overlake Hospital. I looked at my Bulova and was glad I still had a few minutes to change my skirt before my face to face with the neurosurgeon. I dashed in the ladies' room located on the first floor and wiggled out of my skirt as two other women applying their make up looked on at my semi-nakedness. One of them actually looked embarrassed for me. It was embarrassment with a tinge of envy. I am not conceited or arrogant but I know the look women give other women when they see or behold something they wish they have. Hell, I have looked at other women that way. I wickedly grinned at the envious one as I lifted one leg off the skirt around my ankles and turned my backside to her as I opened my briefcase with the spare skirt inside. I knew she was checking out my cellulite free ass. I stepped inside my new skirt and slowly wiggled my hips into it while winking at the other woman who just looked at me with approval. I tossed my coffee soaked old skirt in the trash and consoled myself with the thought of my percentage from the neurosurgeon's profit. I stepped out into the lobby and pressed the elevator button, got in the car and pressed the 6th floor, for my meeting. The front desk girl was personable and directed me to the medical conference room where Dr. Brenner was waiting. As the girl announced my arrival the tall, dark haired man turned to face me. To my delight and surprise, Dr. Brenner was the handsome stranger who handed me his handkerchief at the funeral yesterday. My heart did a somersault when he smiled and walked towards me, his hand extended for a handshake. I smiled back and met his hand. "Chris Brenner" He said, exactly the way I wanted to make his name come out from my lips. Breezy.