Mr. Confetti Man 09 by Benny_Blank
I had mixed feelings about meeting Brita at the coffee place. On the one hand I was horny but this was dampened considerably with her late night escapade at my apartment. True, she did convey in a backhanded way that she might have wanted to have sex with me–straighten out my chakras–but her underlying motivation for all this was, to me, suspect.
The POS Axel, who was in the background, sounded to me to likely be a prime motivator for her actions, at the very least her drinking, if not sparking her urge to fuck somebody “just to show HIM”. Another factor to me was, separate and apart from whatever might have touched her off, the fact that looked for a solution whilst drunk on her ass, also raised a red flag. Nevertheless I made the commitment to meet her so I followed through.
‘Le Café Sucré’ (The Sweet Coffee) was a sickeningly posh Coffee Bar. Rococo is defined as; an exceptionally ornamental and theatrical style of architecture, art and decoration. O.K., I need not attempt to describe or explain ‘Le Café Sucré’ any further. And the coffee? Imagine all of the maddeningly complicated concoctions that can be ordered ahead of you in the line at your favorite coffee bar, triple it, and you still might not have enough for their menu. I didn’t see anything on their menu that would pass for “Black Coffee”…not a “Café Noir” in evidence. It might have been in fine print somewhere, but I missed it. I ordered a sparkling “designer” water and waited for Brita to show up.
Brita came in looking much better than the last time I saw her; she could hardly have looked worse. She wore black..and I mean ALL..black–jeans, sweater, boots and a beret–all black. She looked like those old something-niks from ages ago…very retro..vintage in fact. Her pale skin and blond stood out in contrast to her black outfit. A remarkably beautiful woman, she!
Her order only took her two sentences to make, perhaps a record for brevity in that place. I didn’t wait for her order to get to the table.
Brita looked at me with what I judged to be a “cool” expression, then again, she is Scandinavian and that just may have been her usual look.
“Drummond,” she asked…well…icily, “why did you come here today?”
That took be aback, I thought perhaps she had a memory lapse. I answered, Well, Brita, as best as can recollect, you asked me to meet you here today to talk about…some things. Am I missing something?”
“That’s not exactly what I mean, Drummond,” she said as she examined my face, “it seems to me that, had I been the one so put upon and embarrassed, I would want very little to do with the person who put me through that. So, again, why did you come today?”
“You know, Brita, THAT is a very GOOD point!” I said as I pushed my chair back and started to stand up, “what an interesting place this is. Good-Bye!”
I wasn’t about to subject myself to some conversational “jujitsu” where she would try to turn the tables on me. Either we were going to talk plainly or it wasn’t worth the $15USD I just spent on that sparkling designer water.
I was halfway out of my chair when Brita said, “No, Drummond, no…please…sit down…please… sit down. I’m sorry if I got us off on the wrong foot. Please sit down.”
I took the lead away from her, “Brita, let’s set down some ground rules here. Primarily, I am not here to talk about me. And you have apologized more than once for you behavior the other night. So, really, I just want to know what the hell was/is going on with you that would cause your behavior. Just call me curious…O.K.?”
“Well, then, you’ve answered my question,” Brita said looking self-satisfied, “that’s really all I wanted to know.”
I knew my frustration was beginning to show. I snapped back, “Good, then. Game, set, and match! You got your answer and I don’t have even the slightest hint of what you were and are up to. So, if you don’t mind, I have a Sunday crossword puzzle that needs work back home. Do you know an eight-letter word for Good-Bye that starts with an ‘F”?”
She was quick to answer, “Fuck off? No, that’s two words and only seven letters, eight if one hyphenates it..but then…why would one? Before you bid me ‘farewell’…yes that’s eight letters…Let me apologize again, for the other night, for today, and for my manner…I’m sorry but it’s the only one I’ve got. Now, don’t go…please…”
I lowered myself back in my chair and said, “I’m listening…”
She leaned toward me, “Drummond, I can give you an explanation but I can’t give you an excuse. I came here, as Hildegard has probably told you, because I just finished going through a contentious divorce. My ex-husband, Axel…I think you heard his name…was quite content to live off of my earnings while contributing very little to our common livelihood other than an occasional win at the race track.
There was very little he contributed to our relationship other than occasionally some passable sex. That even went missing when he brought home an STD that he contracted from one…or maybe more than one…of his girlfriends. That was the proverbial last straw for me. I filed for divorce.
Now, in my country, as I suppose it is in most states here, the spouse who is the least capable of supporting herself, or himself, will be awarded money for support. My wasted space of a husband did that and there was a long battle to determine how much that would be, how long he would get it, and how it would be paid. I set up an annuity to fund monthly payments to him, with one larger lump sum payable once a year.
It was all well and good until Axel found a way to raid the annuity and exhaust its funds entirely. And then he had the temerity to re-file with the court an application for increased support payments. Then began another round of litigation which resulted in my having to establish another annuity, one which could not be converted to a single cash value or transferred to another person.
Somehow, he managed to tie his payments up in a business lawsuit. Now he is hounding me for money again. And here comes another lawsuit from him against me. He knows that I have made a lot of money from my career, that I have invested well, and my “separate property” as it is called…of which he is entitled to nothing…can be frozen by this next lawsuit. He wants to talk to me about it. I will not. It’s blackmail! This despicable man will be the death of me.
Does that give you any idea, Drummond, of my general state of mind?”
“I am very sorry to hear about all of that, Brita, and, yes, that is a lot to deal with…a lot to bear. But what caused the explosion of the other night? Was there something more. Worse?”
“You are a very perceptive man, Drummond. In fact there was. I am 36 years old. Stop! I don’t want to hear any of that, ‘my dear you don’t look a day over 26’ crap. I’m 36! I had this idea that I could start a new life after Axel which would include getting married and having children. But, before I started a campaign for that, I decided to have myself checked to see what, if any, residual problems that STD that Axel gave me might have. Two days I got a report from my OB/GYN that destroyed my dream. I was beyond devastated.
I got drunk, not something I ordinarily do…actually I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve done that…but not like THAT night. In my mind was the idea that the doctor was wrong, that if I had sex with somebody, I could prove him wrong. That translated into my wanting to have sex with you…whether you wanted to or not. It was really a ‘recency’ decision; you were the last person I saw who I thought might be worth having sex with. I remember that much…the rest of that night was a blackout…I really have no memory beyond picking up that six-pack of beer.
Again, this is an explanation…no justification…certainly no excuse. I am sorry you had to go through all of this and I am humiliated that it happened at all.”
I detected tears welling up in Brita’s eyes. I felt for her. But I hardly knew what to say. We sat there at the table for several minutes not saying anything to each other. I threw some money on the table to take care of the tab I opened, and some for a tip.
As I got up to leave, I said to Brita, “Thank you, I understand now. I wish all the best for you!”
“Wait! Wait, Drummond,” Brita said, “will we see each other again? Sometime?”
I shrugged my shoulders and said simply, “Who knows?”
I felt doubly sad seeing Brita at that table by herself, a beautiful woman like that, so alone and so sad. But I didn’t turn back. It seemed to me then that it was the right thing to do.
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So, it was BANG! Karen and Conchita–well maybe more of a “bloop” considering how it turned out. But then another BANG! The Gloria fiasco. And then BANG! Desi leaves. And Finally BANG! Brita blows up. Joining a monastery was beginning to look like a viable option for me…well…all except for that celibacy thing…are monks allowed to masturbate? Probably NOT!
Hildegard kept me amused, though. After that revelation of the “Night of the Brita” that she was actually getting it on with somebody, I had license to tease her about her sex life.
Her favorite line came to be, “Oh, Mr. Drummond! Who are you to tease me? You have more sex than anyone I’ve ever met!”
Somehow, in the back of my mind, visualizing Hildegard giving her senior boyfriend a blowjob would make me cringe. But if only she knew how little sex I was getting, she’d change her tune.
Hildegard and I didn’t talk about Brita. I didn’t mention her and Hildegard rarely did. When she did, it was something like, “Brita opened another showing last week. It was nice.” or, “Brita is back from Scandinavia now. It was cold there.” or, “Brita moved out of that apartment. I never liked it. She has a nice house now.” I never responded to these. I thought it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.
6:00PM on a Friday night. The markets are essentially closed. Besides I was tired of scouring sites for obscure information about companies who might be showing promise if they release an IPO. No Football to watch, No basket ball to watch, Baseball is stultifying to watch. No sex, no prospects. I’ll be damned if I was going to that meat market bar–I treasured my hearing too much. “The Grind” on a Friday night? How depressing is that; a bunch of losers playing games or reading Dostoyevsky on tablets.