Undress Her For Dinner
Undress Her For Dinner
A Reinvented Life
I can hardly hear myself think once the train roars off, speeding me toward the center of the city. I figure the racket is a blessing and thus, I zone out with the turbulent sound of the chugging, grinding, screeching wheels beneath me. I am curiously comforted. Perhaps it's the gentle motion of the train car, the deep hum, and the vibration that rides inside my belly, warming it, that makes the trip inside this very ordinary railcar pleasant. The experience punctuates the beginning of my day-and the end, a sensuous redundancy that settles a host of anxious fears, which would otherwise rise up and clobber any composure I attempt to maintain. Everything in my life is so strangely new-from the wide-open fields of the Midwest to this grand city, with its hodgepodge of bungling architecture splashed across its cityscape. The language indigenous to this region, the smell of the streets, the lazy pace compared to the East Coast frenzy...I could go on with my observations, from things that matter to minute details that awaken me with surprise.
I love it all.
It's new; nothing like the world I left to come here, with its airs and mannerisms, which for me was so filled with pitfalls and booby-traps that I stumbled over my own feet with every choice I made.
I landed a job with Riordan & McCall, Designers, two months ago and swept into my new world on a magic carpet ride of excitement. Those days were a wildly wonderful whir of enticements; temptations and spine-tingling thrills that kept me dazed for nearly two weeks. I suppose it's a very good thing that my life has now settled down to a more reasonable pace.
My routine is set. I understand my job and do it well. I have a quaint but very functional apartment north of the city. I even have a few budding friendships and causal dinner dates that keep me from turning into a social outcast, as leery as I am of developing any close connections-just yet. All things considered, my ducks have lined up in perfect order and are moving me swimmingly into an easy, blissful sameness.
Not that I'm bored. Far from it. The job alone would keep me entertained without any further additions. And the city could keep my weekends occupied for months, shopping, sightseeing, dining in strange restaurants. Because of that fact, because the city will always be available to me, I often choose to stay home and relax on my days off curling up in my reading chair with some scintillating novel-so screams the vibrant book jacket in embossed gold lettering. After an excruciating beginning to adulthood, this is nirvana. I suppose all that I could ask for.
Though my past reeks with shame, I feel vindicated now, reborn. That secret terror may tug at me from time to time, in quiet twinges of guilt-a billboard, newscast, magazine ad suddenly ripping my gut for a few brief seconds with unpleasant reminders-but the worst of it washes over me as I remember how well I've done to put those awful two years behind me.
There's a man who rides my train with me everyday. I consider him another comforting, stabilizing feature of my life, even though I have no idea who he is. A businessman by the look of him. Tall, but not too tall, dark wavy hair, brown eyes, a slim build-nothing particularly remarkable, except his taste in reading. He consistently reads slim volumes of erotic fiction with provocative sounding names like Slut Toy, Bound Virgin, Twins In Chains... anonymous authors, racy covers and his stoic eyes reading line after line without a hint of any sexual stirrings in response to what must be intended to arouse. I imagine his insides furtively boiling over with lust-why else would he devour book after book, day after day? Why would this man be a comfort to me? Because he reminds me of me, with my secret other life. This stranger seems to keep himself well-contained between the covers of his graphic reading material, which