There that's it ...
She screams. Good girl, Patricia. I stay inside her for 22 seconds more (Agency standard). Her eyes are locked on mine. (She was afraid of me--afraid to look me in the eye a few minutes earlier--amazing what a difference a few kind words and a few nimble moves make!) She tentatively cups her hands around my neck as I gently move and lie next to her on the stained mattress.
I know when they're together she's facedown on the bed. He won't look her in the eye. Her hair clenched in his tight fist. Blonde streaks spilling from his meaty fingers. His breath oily and hot on the back of her neck.
Damp neon oozes underneath the window shade but now she can't see. She shuts her eyes and tears mingle with her perspiration. I see this--feel this. Does she cry with him?
I can't close my eyes.
Automatic switch to cuddle mode. Eight minutes max (Agency standard). She turns on her side and continues to cry silently into the pillow. It's still a bit shameful for a woman to need the services of something like me. Even in this enlightened age. Doesn't matter with men. They get a quick bang for their buck, zip up their trousers and go home to their wives. A very neat and tidy business. The Agency may have programmed me for everything--every conceivable position, every toy, every act immoral and illegal--but not this. A woman broken.
You're afraid of happiness ...
I lean over and press my check against hers. Tears trickle down. "Pa-tri-cia darling," I coo. No response. I kiss her tiny earlobe and then downward. Her moist cheek. Her curved jawline. "Patricia..." My hand slides slowly down to her hips. My lips stop at her neck, her shoulder. I run my fingertips up to where the bruises begin. My hand hovers pale like mist above the red and purple streaks. What was it that made him do this? A burned steak? Forgetting to iron his favorite shirt? Looking another man in the eye?
His fingers the same size as mine, each bruise an angry declaration. The manufactured warmth of my skin radiates against her solid pink flesh. If I just move closer... could she feel me if I were closer?
You deserve the best ... you deserve me.
The chain flashes around my neck. Another customer. I kiss her check gently again and move to the edge of the bed and glance back at her. Tears fall silently. Eyes still closed.
She can close her eyes. I can't.
I get dressed. Slip on my boots. And watch her. No response.
You'll never want a real man again.
No uncomfortable fumbling when it's over (a welcome change). Money's been left on the dresser. I pick it up in one quick click of my wrist. No need to count it. Nice girl like Patricia. Honest. Real.
You are a goddess.
I glance back at her weeping form outlined under the sheets. A thin voice rises from the pillow. "Don't. Don't ... go." I pause (for once at a loss for words) but I don't turn around. I reach for the knob and slowly pull open the door, taking care not to let the hinges squeak. "I'll be counting the seconds until we meet again, Patricia," I say to the empty hallway.
The chain. It pulls me. The chain that ties me to who I am. What I am. What chain ties her to the man? Something that's so thin, and yet so unbreakable. Not like her. Pull it and let it snap Patricia. Pull it apart.
The chain flashes again. I do what I do and enter the night. Mustn't keep a lady waiting.
She screams. Good girl, Patricia. I stay inside her for 22 seconds more (Agency standard). Her eyes are locked on mine. (She was afraid of me--afraid to look me in the eye a few minutes earlier--amazing what a difference a few kind words and a few nimble moves make!) She tentatively cups her hands around my neck as I gently move and lie next to her on the stained mattress.
I know when they're together she's facedown on the bed. He won't look her in the eye. Her hair clenched in his tight fist. Blonde streaks spilling from his meaty fingers. His breath oily and hot on the back of her neck.
Damp neon oozes underneath the window shade but now she can't see. She shuts her eyes and tears mingle with her perspiration. I see this--feel this. Does she cry with him?
I can't close my eyes.
Automatic switch to cuddle mode. Eight minutes max (Agency standard). She turns on her side and continues to cry silently into the pillow. It's still a bit shameful for a woman to need the services of something like me. Even in this enlightened age. Doesn't matter with men. They get a quick bang for their buck, zip up their trousers and go home to their wives. A very neat and tidy business. The Agency may have programmed me for everything--every conceivable position, every toy, every act immoral and illegal--but not this. A woman broken.
You're afraid of happiness ...
I lean over and press my check against hers. Tears trickle down. "Pa-tri-cia darling," I coo. No response. I kiss her tiny earlobe and then downward. Her moist cheek. Her curved jawline. "Patricia..." My hand slides slowly down to her hips. My lips stop at her neck, her shoulder. I run my fingertips up to where the bruises begin. My hand hovers pale like mist above the red and purple streaks. What was it that made him do this? A burned steak? Forgetting to iron his favorite shirt? Looking another man in the eye?
His fingers the same size as mine, each bruise an angry declaration. The manufactured warmth of my skin radiates against her solid pink flesh. If I just move closer... could she feel me if I were closer?
You deserve the best ... you deserve me.
The chain flashes around my neck. Another customer. I kiss her check gently again and move to the edge of the bed and glance back at her. Tears fall silently. Eyes still closed.
She can close her eyes. I can't.
I get dressed. Slip on my boots. And watch her. No response.
You'll never want a real man again.
No uncomfortable fumbling when it's over (a welcome change). Money's been left on the dresser. I pick it up in one quick click of my wrist. No need to count it. Nice girl like Patricia. Honest. Real.
You are a goddess.
I glance back at her weeping form outlined under the sheets. A thin voice rises from the pillow. "Don't. Don't ... go." I pause (for once at a loss for words) but I don't turn around. I reach for the knob and slowly pull open the door, taking care not to let the hinges squeak. "I'll be counting the seconds until we meet again, Patricia," I say to the empty hallway.
The chain. It pulls me. The chain that ties me to who I am. What I am. What chain ties her to the man? Something that's so thin, and yet so unbreakable. Not like her. Pull it and let it snap Patricia. Pull it apart.
The chain flashes again. I do what I do and enter the night. Mustn't keep a lady waiting.