Chapter 3
Perhaps it was thoughts of her family or maybe the bath last night, in any event she was alive and fresh the next morning. She could feel the breeze whipping through her hair as she cycled to work. The tire hadn’t gone flat overnight and the Lycra suits were unable to catch her. Her legs felt charged as she made light after light on her way to work. She arrived almost an hour early and went down to the canal just to cruise. She thought it would be fun to feed the ducks and she’d brought a couple of old rolls. Though she threw the food to them and tried to make sure every duck got a fair share, she was distracted and continually looked along the canal. She wasn’t watching the rowers or joggers, she was looking for the Great Dane. He would be here somewhere she thought. Maybe the tramp had a round or a scavenging route. She could only remember seeing him twice but still she hoped to bump into him and maybe give something to the dog. She should’ve bought some biscuit treats for him. She would try to get some at lunch and maybe she would still see the big old dog.
There was more going on in the park along side her office than she realized. She had discovered a poet who had an ongoing affair with a young lady and Jenny was now a voyeur to their love. She wondered what he looked like. Robert Coley her boss and his girlfriend popped to mind. Could it be him? Surely not, though he was educated and she saw him yesterday. No, it would have to be someone more romantic and exciting than Robert. Her thoughts drifted as she stood by the canal pondering the poet, imagining his fine features.
The call of a coxswain brought her around and she realized it was close to start time. She didn’t want to be late again and rode quickly to the bicycle park. She saw an open bay and headed for it. Three meters from the stand a courier whizzed in front of her and slammed straight into her slot. He jumped off his bike with his messenger bag swinging and was three steps away by the time she stopped her bike.
Just as she was thinking what to call him he stopped and turned looking at the small woman in the pale pink skirt.
“Sorry was that your spot?”
“Well kind of, I work here and I...”
“No problem.” He returned to his bike unlocked it and lifted it out leaning it against the wall. He did it with such ease she wasn’t sure if he was strong or the bike amazingly light. “Sorry Miss, I’m here just for a sec. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s okay, uh, thanks.” Before she could say more he was gone. He seemed quite handsome even in the tight suit, helmet and goggles. Maybe the poet was a cyclist who came by during the day. She walked to the entrance, when she reached for the door it burst towards her. It was the cyclist courier again. He held the door for her.
“Have a nice day Miss.”
“Thanks, you too.” That was nice she thought. She would watch for him down at the canal.
The morning seemed to pass with little more than the usual mumbled greetings. Her recommendations on the romance writers were accepted upstairs with little more than a polite ‘thank you’ by the pretty secretary. The fact that it was a day early seemed to be an irrelevance. She wondered why she had tried to finish it last night. If she had a dog she would’ve gone for a walk and not bothered to do it. She thought about the cyclist, the musician, Robert Coley and the man she knew would be the best choice as the poet.
Her mind was drifting over his good looks when she noticed the office had become very silent. She peaked up to see what was going on. It was empty. It was eleven forty-five and everyone had already gone for lunch. Great. She would get down to the supermarket about five blocks away and get back in time to maybe see the Dane. She picked up her bag and dashed for the elevator. It arrived just on time, which was fortunate; even more so as it was empty.
When she got back to the park it was almost twelve thirty, she’d forgotten everyone goes shopping at lunchtime. She hurried down to the water’s edge and to her bench. Thankfully there was no one on it. Jenny set the box of biscuits on the bench and searched for the Great Dane, but couldn’t see him anywhere. She watched the joggers to see if any looked like stopping. Thirty or forty feet behind her there was a couple with a tablecloth set out having a picnic. Otherwise there was nothing unusual; no poet, no dogs, no mysterious cyclist, worst of all no paper.
It was in her head. She was fabricating everything.
She sat down by the biscuits and looked at them. What a stupid waste of money. The box of dejected biscuits looked back up at her. She reached in her messenger bag and took out her sandwich. She set it on her lap and stared vacantly at the water. Its placid movement and swirling almost hypnotized her, she suddenly felt tired. She had woken up too early. With her eyes closed Jenny never heard him approach.
The box of biscuits shook near her ear startling her. When she looked up he was smiling down at her.
“We’ll have to pay you more if that’s all you can afford.” He pointed at the box of biscuits. It was Robert Coley.
“No it’s for a friend, a dog.”
“I figured that from the label ‘canine gourmet’.”
“Yes well, dogs have specific tastes in… dog food.” As soon as she said it she realized how stupid it sounded. “No girlfriend today?”
“No, she’s going to stay just a friend. Seems she has specific tastes too.”
“But not in dog food.”
“If that’s how you see males.”
“No I didn’t mean-”
“I don’t see why you have difficulty expressing your self. Charles said at the luncheon today you can speak quite eloquently, though not exactly highly, of the male species.”
“Luncheon?”
“Missed that too. You probably made the right choice.” He moved away slowly, he was obviously considering saying something else. Perhaps he was the poet and was going to stop writing. “Thank you for the analysis, I read it this morning. We’ll take it further. Well done.” He started to leave.
“Thank you.” She decided to be straight about the argument in the office. “About the Charles comment...”
He waved back at her and glanced over his shoulder then chose to turn and made a dramatic flourish, “To be or not to be there is the stump of it.” He chuckled to himself. “God I wish I’d seen his face.” Robert Coley, definitely not her poet, walked away. He wasn’t exactly ineloquent, but there was no chance he was the poet. There was also no chance he found her even remotely interesting, even if he had spoken to her more in the past three days than in the past three years.
She was about to cram the biscuit box into her purse and then thought she may as well leave it for the old boy and his dog when they next did their round. She reached down to tuck it beside the leg of the bench and that was when she saw it, below the bench. It had slipped between the wooden strips. She leaned around and snatched at it. She whipped up and was about to read, when she suddenly felt watched. She glanced around, quickly concealing the paper behind her. There was no one watching her. The couple were packing up their picnic, two joggers running side by side didn’t even glance at her as they passed and a posse of moms with prams cackled along, otherwise there was no one.
Confident she was alone, she sat back and gently unfolded the paper. It was the same kind of paper as the first two days. It was another poem. The paper had been folded into quarters and a poem written in tiny handwriting in each square. One entire square was just the title, ‘For Joy’.
LOVE ON A PARK BENCH 3
The morning mist coldly brushes my innocent’s hair
Like lavender crushed in huddled despair,
Her hopes now quenched in lust filled thirst,
My soul inside her swelling and burst.
My touch upon her, caressing her petals tender
Ushering oaths of love, goodwill to engender.
Honesty, love’s ravens, through my veins does rush,
Bringing our instruments into harmonious hush.
Arching backward in dizzy blinded desi
re
My love stands skewered on lusts’ own fire.
Consuming all, the love chalice must splinter
Returning limp to cold heart’s solitary winter.
Learning not, love’s mirror thrusts me on in vain,
Dashing the hope of avoiding further succulent pain.
OR NO…
Her skin, like wave polished rocks, unbridled and
smooth,
Her eyes full of thunderous passion could great
hearts move,
Her hands lure the innocent like down on a signet’s
chest,
Her lips are love blown by the sun as it seeps in the
west,
Her heart flies true and honored as a winged dove’s
flight,
Her bosom yearns inviting as the pale moon does
the night,
Her hair, a tangled lullaby invites my heart to sway,
Her breath softly whispers forth a love-wish to stay,
Can one such as I survive the beauty of one so fair?
Love struck I dive forth my heart is yours to care…
OR NO…
I yearn to be lovelorn and my heart stumbles through
the night
On your beauty I am drunk, gloriously addled with
delight.
I barge through my bleary love quest and know no
fear,
My struggle is to encase you, the one I hold so
dear.
But should I capture beauty would it wither in the
palm,
Should I still this enraptured heart, make tremors go
calm?
I would I could hold you, your bosom quiver on my
breast,
I would spurn this tardy life for such a fortune’s
bequest.
But greed would undo me to keep you as my
own
So my heart must lay trampled, on the seas be
thrown,
So your great beauty may rise to the gods – angelic
thunder,
And my pale heart gaze up in passion’s spellbound
wonder.
Yet I saw you on the park bench, that glance was
bliss
I’d not live this life again for that moment to
miss.
The paper fluttered briefly in a breath of wind and her trance was broken. She was mesmerized by his poem. Why? It wasn’t particularly good. He obviously made no draft and was struggling through his thoughts. He broke cadence and rhyme scheme and forced his ideas as if he were forcing it on her. She could feel him pressing it on her, his weight, his desires. The smell of his breath. The rustle of his clothing. She looked up at the sound of the rustled clothing. It wasn’t clothing - it was the couple from the picnic ungraciously stuffing their garbage into the trashcan beside her. They looked at her with pity in their eyes, smiling blandly at a sad lonely wilted flower, as if she were some beggar for emotion, a leper. Jenny’s mind swirled. She could not understand their gaze, before perhaps, but now she was close to bursting. Her chest heaved, her palms were red and flushed. Her face felt as though it had pins and needles. She was alive. What do they know?
She stood up and realized she was running late, again she would have to eat at her desk. She walked ten yards behind the couple as they strolled away from the canal. She stared at the man as he fondled his girlfriend’s butt cheeks. She thought about her own love life. Why was it so drab? Was she that unattractive? She had a good body, well okay anyway. Was she some leper to love? She couldn’t be, after all, the poet was writing to her. She had someone’s heart. She knew it, it had to be true. He was writing to her, she just had to find a way to meet him.
At the main entrance a group of her co-workers were filing into the building and Stephen was holding the door for them. There were at least ten of them and they had obviously had a follow on drink after the free lunch. The girls were all bubbly and the guys a little too earnest. Stephen ushered in the last of the girls and saw Jenny just three steps away. He stepped through the door allowing it to close behind him directly in Jenny’s face. She made eye contact with two of the girls from the office and they smirked. She pulled the door back and took the stairs to the seventh floor.
Jenny was quite flushed when she reached the floor and pushed the door open stepping into the office. She recognized the tweed jacket in front of her immediately and wondered if Charles ever washed it. He spun around and handed her a paper.
“There we are. Just the person for the job, Lermontov’s lover, or did he prefer boys?” He glanced up and down at her body as if assessing some distasteful side of pork.
“What?” Her mouth fell open at the brash insult she thought he was attempting to imply about her body.
“You know how technically challenged we male stumps are, so why don’t you do this then?”
She took the paper. “Why, what is it?”
“Robert has asked all of us to have our responses on this for him tomorrow morning.”
“You’re such a brown-noser Charles.” Jenny said.
“Well you’re the one with the Russian lovers. Probably rushing away.” He thought his snide comment was hilarious. Stephen and two other men also joined in the laughter. “So copy it and circulate it to everyone, there’s a good girl.” He condescendingly patted her shoulder and walked away.
Jenny moved to the copy room. This kind of thing was usually for junior staff, very junior staff, but there was no point in making a fuss. Besides it would allow her to eat her sandwich in peace or so she thought.
It was only about three hundred collated copies, but the machine had an arrogant attitude not dissimilar to Charles. It began to eat paper at a ferocious rate. It would jam every two sheets and she would have to open the lid and pull out the chewed up bits of paper. She had been fighting with it for almost half an hour before Terry, the most junior reader, walked in. Jenny liked him; at least he was honest and didn’t have a head full of attitude.
“Jenny, what are you doing?”
“Copying this damn poetry for everyone.”
“Yeah but this copier is shot. It’s been busted for weeks.”
Charles poked his head around the door and looked at the mess of torn papers. “Oh I wouldn’t use that machine, everyone knows it’s buggered, bloody thing’s useless.”
“Use the one on the tenth floor.” Terry said.
“Don’t forget Terry. Darts tonight. Everyone‘ll be there. Seventh floor against the eighth and there are some hot bodies up there.”
Jenny had heard enough of Charles’ crap and began to pack up all the papers to move to the tenth floor.
Terry leaned toward the scrambling Jenny. “Jenny are you coming-”
“Okay Terry, got me there, not everyone.” He pulled Terry from the room.
Why was Charles such a bastard to her? Perhaps she needed to call some kind of truce. Before this week she’d never stood up to him. She continued to sort the mess of papers when Bernadette came past the door and leaned in.
“Why are you screwing around with that machine?” She sipped on her fresh coffee.
“Charles, that ass kisser, told me to do it for Robert, it’s that poet we’re representing.”
“So, why’re you doing it? Should’a told him to take a hike.”
“What three days in a row.” Bernadette laughed. Cindy one of the other readers poked her head in. She was exceedingly tall and her large afro half filled the door. Cindy was unbelievably sexy and elegant, she was actually one of the nicest girls in the office. Jenny and Cindy had gone shopping in flea markets a couple of times, long ago, before Cindy got engaged.
“What laughter from the copy room?” Cindy asked. “That’s impossible. That piece of crap, it’s always broken down.”
“No, it’s Jenny here planning her next attack on Charles.” said Bernadette.
“Sorry, he just
gets on my nerves. And recently…”
“On your nerves! Christ he rips me up no end. Go out and kick his ass like yesterday.” Cindy said as she sauntered her long body through the doorway to help with the papers. Her afro nearly touched the door jam. “You should’ve been at the bar with us today at lunch, Jenny. Stephen and Bernadette were playing you guys to a ‘T’.”
“Thanks Bernadette.”
“I did a good job. Bit shaky on the Pushkin though” Bernadette swaggered.
“I better get these copied.” Jenny started to leave but was stopped by Bernadette’s outstretched arm.
Cindy touched her shoulder. “You should’ve told him to do it himself. You’re senior.”
“To some people maybe, but thanks.” Bernadette dropped her arm in resignation at Jenny’s submissive stance. Jenny was about to leave with the bundle of papers in disarray when she stopped and turned to face Cindy and Bernadette who were smiling at her. “Cindy, where was that knit shop we went to once, you know, they made their own stuff?”
“It was down of 52nd somewhere, why?”
“I was just thinking of-”
“See I told you Cindy, there it is again.” Bernadette jumped in accusingly.
“I see it too girl, you can’t hide it Jenny.” said Cindy.
“What? What are you two on about?”
“Lermontov, Pushkin, Turgenev, we aren’t reading Stephen King are we?” Cindy said with a sassy sway.
“It is all over your face. We’ll wait, don’t worry, but then we want all the details.” Bernadette smirked as she turned Cindy back toward the office. The two girls walked off with a collusive air that baffled Jenny completely.
They couldn’t think she had someone in her life. There wasn’t anyone. It hurt even more to think that maybe they were winding her up too, setting her up for some humiliation. There was no one - not that someone wouldn’t be welcome. She shook her head and trundled up the stairs to get the copying done.
It took about forty minutes of prowling up and down the streets to find the little shop. It was called ‘Sew in Love’ and had changed somewhat since the first time she had visited. It was decorated completely in purple and red with funky, shabby-chic, antique furniture everywhere. Cheap hand-painted chandeliers lit the shop and it had the feel of Rococo art with a twentieth century acid trip. Jenny loved it. Every corner she turned to seemed to be giving birth to an eruption of passion. Ideas and excitement blurted out from the walls. There was a glass and scaffolding construction that served as a massive desk and a young girl, about Jenny’s age, was hunched over the desk sketching. She had purple, spiked hair and a tight, funky red dress. The dress was a very short one piece that hugged her chest and hips. She had a very sexy body and a pouting, full mouth. When she looked up and saw Jenny her pout melted and a genuine warmth flooded across the clutter on the glass desk.
“Sorry I won’t be long, I know you’re closing soon.”
“S’okay. I have no plans tonight. I’ll close whenever you’re done. I’m sketching, but just call for any help. I’m into this, so I could be hours.” She returned to her sketch.
“Wow, thanks.” Jenny leaned over and glanced at the sketch. It was of a woman smoking and holding a trumpet. It fascinated her. The girl paid no attention to Jenny’s stare and just kept sketching.
The girl continued working, totally absorbed by her sketch. “There’s coffee in the back, it’s a machine, but you won’t die. Well, probably not. Take your time.”
A rush of naughtiness flowed through Jenny. She never shopped in places like this. She could try on all kinds of things. The place was virtually closed and the girl seemed friendly.
She at first reached for anything with bright colors and then went for short skirts. Her confidence was wavering though. Where could she possibly wear something like this? She wasn’t like the ‘cool chick’ at the front. She was a reader with an MA in Russian literature – totally boring. She was holding a bright yellow tube dress and thinking of how small it was. Never. She laid it back on the rack.
“Do it.”
Jenny turned it was the girl with the purple hair. “Sorry?”
“Give it a go. It’s your size. C’mon in here.” The girl snatched the dress and led Jenny to the changing room and pulled the curtain back.
“No, it’s okay. It's not really me, I-”
“Try it on. I’ll lock the door. No one’s coming in. I sketch you play.”
“Okay.” A rush of sparks shot through Jenny’s spine. “Thanks.”
“Cool.” The girl turned and walked casually toward the front door. Jenny watched her small bum. She thought women with punky haircuts and hard make up were either prostitutes or ‘hard bitches’. This girl was creative and very chilled out. The girl moved back to her sketch and Jenny slowly drew the curtain closed.
“Get it on, let’s see.” She called out from the other side of the curtain.
Jenny turned in the cubicle and noticed the massive chrome bullhorns on the wall. It looked like a huge Texas fertility god. She unbuttoned her frock and held the little tube up. It reminded her of tight fitting lycra cycling suits. She pulled it over her head. It was so tight it felt like a man holding her. She stepped out. The girl was there.
“Nope. No bra with this number. You show all you got and let’em dream.”
“Pardon?”
“Take your bra off. Let your boobs out. The dress will hold them try it.”
Jenny wasn’t sure why, she wasn’t the kind of woman who went braless, it attracted the wrong ideas. She wasn’t a prude, just not ready for that kind of thing. Under the young girl’s gaze though she thought she should go along, after all she was staying open late. She pulled her bra off and faced the girl. The girl tugged the dress around her breasts and pulled the hem to cover her bum. Jenny felt handled. The spiky haired girl pulled another curtain back and Jenny saw herself in a double angled mirror. She froze.
The purple haired girl smiled and laughed. “You’re gonna have to relax in this. You look very hot.”
“I, I never, ah-” Jenny was shocked and excited. It was as if she could feel the eyes and hands of men caressing her through the dress.
“You have what the dress needs. Guys will stand at erection - I mean attention, hell both - on the spot, soon as they see you.”
Jenny wanted out of it right away. She leapt back into the cubicle. She pulled the tight yellow tube over her head. She leaned against the wall for stability for a few seconds, her blood tingled. She realized she only had her panties on. She fumbled for the bra and blouse.
A hand appeared through the curtain. “Here try this on, I saw you looking at it earlier.” The girl’s hand held a dusty pink knit cardigan with pale purple buttons all up the front. “Wear a lacey camisole under it and unbutton it just over half way it’ll look great.”
Jenny tried the cardigan on, it was a lovely color. It fit tight around her breasts and gave her lots of shape and definition. The shade of pink was not flash but had a sense of the provocative. She’d definitely buy it.
“You have to wear it with a camisole.” The spiky haired girl called through the curtain.
“Yeah sure.” The girl seemed to know beforehand that Jenny was going to buy it.
Jenny watched as the girl in the red dress took out pink tissue paper and wrapped her cardigan in an exquisite fashion. And then folded a black sheet of paper into a bag shaped like a man’s shirt. She seemed totally absorbed in the artistic presentation. She slipped the cardigan into the bag.
“Wow you really know how to wrap.”
The girl chuckled, “Origami addiction.”
Jenny paid the girl and took the hand made paper bag. The purchase had been far more than she wanted to spend, but she felt electrified by her time in the store.
The spiky-haired girl stopped her. “Here. Do me a favor.” Jenny watched as the girl jumped on a s
mall stool and pulled down a tin from a shelf. It was a bit bigger than an old fashioned coffee tin and had been spray painted purple. “Take this.” She rolled the lemon yellow tube dress into a ball and stuffed it ungraciously into the tin. “Here.”
“No, I can’t. I mean, thank you but-”
“Wear it, just once. You don’t like it - bring it back. But give yourself the chance. Girl, you make this dress. Your butt looks great in it.” Jenny stood holding the tin as if it were an explosive. “Get some tights and a cool big necklace, big beads or something, even metal. Go scare the crap out of some nerds.”
Jenny looked at the spiky haired girl. “Yeah, okay.” She was still trying to convince herself, but the girl was so nice she couldn’t say no. “I’ll give it a go sometime.”
“Sure, whenever.”
“Okay thanks. I know lots of nerds to scare.”
The girl laughed and showed Jenny to the door. “Don’t we all.”
As the door closed behind her Jenny looked around the street, it was getting dark and was nearing eight. She had been in the store for almost two hours, it had seemed like twenty minutes. She felt fresh and alive. She jumped on her bike and pedaled home with her cardigan and the totally frightening lemon dress in her bicycle’s flower basket.
Once in her apartment she busied herself with her work. After her recent conversations with Robert, Jenny knew he would be expecting her submission like everyone else’s regarding the new poet’s work. The poet had been picked up by their office in San Francisco after he’d won a local writing award and he seemed like an exciting prospect. They had pushed his work through and few of the other readers had actually come across it. It was a bit academic to try to gauge the opinions of the east coast set if the project was already signed, sealed and basically delivered. She was sure it had been railroaded through by special interests out in San Francisco. Nevertheless she would have to submit some thoughts.
In less than two hours she’d had enough and closed the folder. It was not for her, if she was completely honest, she would have closed it in fifteen minutes. The author was going to be at the signing tomorrow and there would no doubt be several reviews coming out soon. She thought it was dreadful - or was it just her state of mind these days? Where was the poet inside the writing? However off beat, however irregular or intransient, the thought process must exist? Poetry is about passion. The work she had read seemed like commercially quaint pentameter pandering to the violent video game crowd. Is that all there was left for readers to enjoy? Her bench poet wasn’t like that. He was a lover extreme. Just as handsome no doubt, though she had heard the Californian writer was a drop-dead hunk. Her mystery poet had yet to materialize, she realized that – it was a minor detail. The passion whether from sonnets, haiku or beat poetry, must come from inside. She thought the heart within the submission was vapid. She poured herself a glass of red and walked to the balcony. Good God, she thought, how would she possibly express that kind of acidic thought to Robert.
She left her wine on the little café table and went to her storage closet. She rummaged around and after a few minutes produced what she was searching for. It was from her Grandmother, given to her when she graduated from university. It was an old notebook cover. Her grandmother was a published writer of children’s stories and each work she produced was initially born between these calloused leather covers. She caressed it gently, it seemed to almost speak of the stories it had known. It had belonged to her great grandfather and was now a fourth generation relic. Gran had slipped a new pad of paper inside and since that time the edges of the paper had yellowed ever so slightly. It was her grandmother who had wanted her to study literature and become a novelist. She’d wanted Jenny to write of the purity in her heart, without fear. Well, Jenny thought, if she were to write what she thought of the Californian there would be fear – the fear of losing her job.
She returned to the balcony and with her UHU glue in one hand and red wine in the other, she pasted each poem neatly onto the right side of each page of the notebook. Perhaps she would write a response to him on the left. She finished her wine and carried her newly bound friend to the bedroom. The cardigan was on the end of her bed, still neatly wrapped, beside the purple tin holding the lemon tube dress full of attitude. It was such a sexy, octane level dress it needed to be contained. When she had it on she felt almost radioactive – however that might feel. She would open them tomorrow. It would be her way to kick-start the day. She would put those bonehead guys at the office on their asses.