Flipping Reality
A story about a simple rendezvous, or perhaps not so simple…
I am in a hotel room, and incidentally, I am going to be staying for the night. That is the problem. I do not like passing the night in a hotel room. It gives me a damning clarity of the swing and impressions of life. The last time I spent a night in a hotel room, two years ago, I was with a girl, whose name I hadn't known until she formally introduced herself. Before she came in, I told myself I would ask her to leave if she was either too beautiful or too ugly — if she was either too happy or too sad.
I think the easiest way to gauge theatrics is to observe people who live in the extreme. People imbued with the ability to amplify feelings beyond reasonable depths. Her name turned out to be Angela.
Fortunately, it seemed I had wished my preference into her demeanor. She turned out as I would have liked. She barely smiled, and the only time she really laughed, I had told her my dick was small. Perhaps she laughed because it was off the cuff. It was perhaps crazy for a guy to talk about his privates before his name. Well, my dick preceded my name, and when I told her my name, she wanted to know why I decided to answer to a verb.
“Prosper is a verb,” she said. And she had a wry, mischievous look on her face. I thought it was my moment to school her on the relativity of concepts, and how the world was anchored on relativity. Only I wondered if such a narrative was appropriate. If the display of superior wit would elevate the subject matter, which was sex by the way. I asked her how she knew my room even though I hadn't told her. She nodded in disapproval and asked again. Angela simply wanted to know why I would answer to a verb.
I stood up from the bed, spontaneously, tapping the side of my head.
"What is a noun?" I asked
"A name of a person, animal..."
"What am I?"
"A person."
"Okay. What is the name of a person?"
"Oh! I see." She was smiling. Limpid eyes.
Perhaps it was at that moment I thought we would be compatible. It was virtually impossible to hold a digressive conversation with a call girl. I thought Angela was the intelligent type. I briefly mingled with the intention of thanking my supplier, Sarah. She had been pathetic until today. I watched Angela wring herself from the bed. She looked at me with a conniving, familiar look.
"Why do you look so familiar?"
"Because I am."
She told me she needed to excuse herself in the bathroom. It was a formality. Sometimes I wondered if they had something in the little bag, a sort of charm, that kept them safe from the devilish tendencies of a prospective client. I understood someone in her position had to be careful.
Angela took an awful long time, and it afforded me the luxury to ruminate on the interesting nature of a hotel room. I imagined the number of persons that had slept on this same bed. The number of times people had had sex on it.
Gradually, I found myself drifting to a distinct depth. I thought about death, ghosts, and wondered whether any of the previous occupiers of this room were now dead.
I put a lid on this thought when I discovered my heart was running up my chest. I lumbered down to the bathroom door and knocked. There was no reply. I could hear the sound of the tap running.
I knocked again. This time, harder. Angela was silent. I turned the knob and slowly opened the door. I expected her to wedge the door, the way people do when one invaded their privacy. Surprisingly, she didn't. When the door opened eventually, I saw my face on the mirror opposite the door.
I was the only one in the room. Somehow Angela had left. I took a moment to examine this frightening realization. It was easy to think I had just had a conversation with a ghost. Gradually, the fear walked up my countenance, the way the day fades imperceptibly to night.
I was overtaken by immense trepidation as I reeled back to the bed. Two yards from the bed, I heard a soft knock on the room door. I scuffed down and opened. There was a woman outside. She had a surprised, concerned look, conceivably drawn to the fear that emanated from my face.
On seeing her, my vision became blurry, dim, almost disappearing. My knees were weak, buckling below. She stretched a hand towards me, holding me up.
I was more frightened by her compassion.
"Are you alright? I am Angela and you are expecting me, right?"
Of course she was Angela. That was the problem.
