G. was 33, C. was 17. An engineer by day, he was a beautiful ballet-jazz dancer by night. And her lover, too. And her aunt’s friend.
Fiercely macho and not that nice, he was said to have a woman for each page of his agenda, and he was her first love. C. was only a sweet little nothing with a great bum, as he put it, laughing, but secretly, she knew she was an ugly duckling. He made her discover the beautiful secret of the O Club, and she followed, not always understanding the full extent of his horizontal vocabulary, following nonetheless, adoringly.
Always silent, she adopted his point of view on anything and everything. Sitting on the bidet, she would watch him taking a shower, in awe, looking at the white suds dripping on his golden coffee body. He smelled like a dark and exotic wood, and nutmeg, and cumin, and incense – she could have spent her life just there, in his shirt pocket, not moving, intensely happy.
But there were so many other pages on his calendar… one of them was a gorgeous 6″ tall model, who found them in his bedroom. Painful encounter for an ugly duckling. Later, she met her in a social event, where she appeared regal, while she felt … still a a little nothing, not that sweet. The aunt was not happy, G. broke up, and C. disappeared from his life, from her parent’s life, from everybody’s sight, for 5 years. For some reason, she had sworn to herself she would visit him when she would be 23, and she did. He made her swirl around the yard forever – he had apparently looked everywhere for her. He swept her to his bed for 3 days. She felt proud, adult, detached.
He fell ill, she fell in love with somebody else, but she was the first person to visit him at the hospital. He was then ready to love her, marry her, be with her, but the time to be faithful to him had passed. She loved somebody else who didn’t smell like spices, she got married, had a child, and left her spiceless life.
Since that man, she met the same model twice, and fell head over heels both times. The spice combination is not the same, but the passion is.
The latest model is a G. too, 33 too, cilantro with a hint of cumin. But about 30 years have passed, and she is not 17 anymore. The newest model is improved, he is kind, and not a macho, except in bed, where it is not that bad, actually.
At a party where she did not expect anything to happen, a beautiful young person talked about the new G. He had contacted her, and she, unaware of anything, candidly confessed she did not know what to do about it.
C. understood that she was still a sweet little nothing who had accepted to be a page one someone else’s agenda.
Time to change agenda.