Chapter 12 #2
“So, it’s really just an afternoon of gossip, but sometimes it drags into the evening. I was ready for that and made tiramisu, as well. It’s good to be prepared, right?”
Nothing.
“Anyway, tiramisu is an Italian delicacy made with coffee-soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone cheese. You can use a few teaspoons of chocolate liqueur instead of the coffee one, and that would be super tasty, too, but I like to include Baileys Irish Cream instead. That hint of whiskey flavor and creamy richness adds such a sensual twist to an already amazing indulgence. Have you ever tried tiramisu?”
There’s no response from my guest, as usual.
I launch into describing each step of the preparation, from making the filling to dipping the biscuits in coffee, to layering the mascarpone, and finally, generously dusting with cocoa powder.
I’m not sure what fantasy my client lives out while he listens to me talk, especially when I go into these brain-numbing recitals of my daily tasks or random issues.
I keep waiting for him to ask me to stop, to tell me to just shut up already, but it never happens.
He simply endures.
During one of our earlier meetups, I even talked about some issues in my building, and the screaming match I had with the super about the elevator that hadn’t worked for years, despite the little weasel’s constant assurances that he’d get it repaired.
Last week, I gave my silent guest an update on that story.
About how I got home on Monday and was amazed to discover our elevator was fixed.
Mom and I celebrated by heading out to a local branch of the public library together.
Then, I regaled him with a fascinating (not!) tutorial on the best methods of cleaning silverware with only natural products.
Today, I guess, was my version of a TED talk on the makings of a bakeless cake.
“Well, you’d love it. The tiramisu I make is my mom’s recipe,” I continue.
“A long time ago, when my dad was still alive, Mom dreamed of opening a tiny bakery in our neighborhood. She talked about me going off to college to earn a business or marketing degree so the two of us could run the bakery together someday. That dream was put on hold, though. After my dad died, and then my mom got sick, I dropped out of high school. Paying our bills became more pressing than making desserts.”
Tightness grips my chest suddenly, and I have to take a breath before I can go on.
“I’m ashamed to admit, but initially, I was mad at my mom when I was forced to quit school.
Not that she made me do it. Never. My mom’s not like that.
And not because I loved school or anything.
God knows I wasn’t crazy about going every day where I got teased, and sometimes bullied, because my clothes came from a thrift shop and weren’t as cool as the other girls’.
Nope. I was angry because I felt like a failure, like I let my mom down, even though her sickness and our circumstances were out of her control.
And mine. You know? Have you ever felt that way? ”
Again, silence is the only reply I receive.
I give my head another shake. For a moment there, I forgot this is a one-way conversation.
I’m not sure how our “chats” morphed into something of such a personal nature.
Why I feel not just compelled but comfortable sharing details about my life with a stranger who has a weird kink.
And although we’re locked in a private room at an exclusive gentlemen’s club, and he’s paying a boatload of money, it feels intimate, and kind of good in a way.
To be able to talk about the things in my heart and on my mind, and know the other party will simply listen.
“You probably haven’t. I bet you’re successful and went to great schools.
My half sister gets some perverse satisfaction from pointing it out every chance she gets, how much smarter she is than I am,” I mumble.
“You see, we have the same father. Her mom divorced my dad long before I was born. They both remarried. My dad to my mom, and then they had me. Her mother, to a wealthy and influential man, so my half sister went to all the fancy schools and even got a PhD.” I reach out and adjust my skirt, more for the need to pause than to fix the dress.
Talking about Lucrezia always makes me sad.
I found her published dissertation online.
Her thesis was on the role of behavioral finance in investment decisions.
That topic bores me to tears, but I still basically inhaled the paper.
Not sure I understood a lot of it. She’s really smart.
“You see,” I whisper. “My sister is ashamed to be related to me, and…it hurts to know. I don’t have any other siblings.
Would really love it if we could be close, even though she’s ten years older than me.
I’ve tried to reach out to her in the past, more than once, hoping things between us could change.
But…” I shrug. What is there left to say?
Lucrezia might never see me as anything but beneath her.
“I’ve even forgiven her for not coming to our dad’s funeral.
Maybe, one day, she’ll change. I choose to believe that, even if it makes me sound a little naive. ”
A little naive?
Understatement of the century.
People don’t change. Ever. They may think they can, and they might for a little while, but in the end, their true nature prevails. Believing otherwise is not only naive, it’s delusional.
I cock my head to the side, studying this utterly remarkable creature before me.
Listening as she moves on to telling me how she spent her one day a week off helping her neighbor paint the kitchen cabinets.
If I recall correctly, this is the same neighbor that she previously mentioned.
The one who stood her up after agreeing to give Iris and her mother a ride to a doctor’s appointment.
“…but we didn’t cover the couch, and ended up splattering a bit of paint on it.
Her studio is so cramped it’s a miracle we didn’t cause more damage.
Of course, we tried to get the stains out, but couldn’t because the paint was oil-based.
I told Evelyn I’d use my employee discount at the hardware store to buy some paint remover, and we could try again after my shift on Tuesday night.
So, that’s what we did. Luckily, it worked and didn’t ruin the upholstery… ”
The room’s lights are dimmed, but there’s enough illumination from the floor lamp next to the sofa she’s sitting on.
The soft glow falls directly onto Iris’s clasped hands on her lap.
With a young woman like her, I’d expect her nails to be manicured and brightly painted.
Hers, though, are cut short, bare, and a few edges seem rough.
Over the past weeks, I’ve learned quite a lot about this peculiar woman from the monologues that are meant to entertain me.
The list of her daily tasks is never-ending.
She works five jobs, and has been doing so since long before she was officially an adult in the eyes of the law.
One would think that, with such ample employment, she’d be able to afford more than basic necessities for herself, but it appears that most of her earnings go to cover her mother’s medical bills, leaving little behind for luxuries.
And as if working her ass off for someone else’s sake isn’t enough, she’s apparently happy to deal out charity work to an endless stream of people around her.
Not once, while speaking about the multitude of jobs she works to barely make ends meet, or her other responsibilities, did she complain about her life.
In one of our previous evenings together, she mentioned spending that day helping her employer’s wife organize her closet.
Iris talked of the dresses, skirts, pants, and blouses she hung, folded, and tucked away for nearly her entire time with me.
She was enamored with describing the fabrics, the colors, the styles, but not a word of it was spoken with envy or contempt.
She was simply genuinely happy that the lady of the house was finally wearing such pretty, vibrant things.
I’m finding it hard to believe this girl is real. I’ve met a lot of people in my life. Some as rotten and corrupt as they come. But I’ve never met anyone so plainly…pure. She’s like the last living member of a soon-to-be extinct species.
Maybe that’s why I keep returning here. She fascinates me.
Holds my interest while not much else in this life can.
I keep waiting to see if she’ll slip up.
Say something that will shatter this perception of her innocence.
I was sure it would only be a matter of time.
But, no. Six evenings in, and she’s still the same as I initially thought.
A pure soul caught in a world drenched in sin.
A ray of sunshine at the bottom of a black abyss.
A delicate flower that I should stay far, far away from. But I can’t.
I lean back against my sofa, listening to her melodic voice.
Absorbing every sound that leaves her lips.
It makes my cock stir. Her soft voice is like a hypnotic song, tempting me as I’ve never been tempted before.
It doesn’t even matter what she talks about.
Weather. People. Things. I just like hearing her.
As enchanted with her voice as I am with the rest of her.
As usual, she seamlessly segues from one subject to another, moving from discussing one neighbor’s home renos to telling me about her other neighbor’s dog. As if she doesn’t have enough on her plate with taking care of other people, now she’s apparently handling other people’s pets, too.
“…and the poor thing’s fur was completely matted.
When I finished giving him a bath, I was soaked through and through.
And then, it took me almost an hour to brush him.
It was nearly midnight when I finally took him back across the street to Mrs. Franklin.
Honestly, I was dead on my feet, but I didn’t mind.
I’ve always wanted a dog of my own. How about you?
Do you like dogs or are you a cat person? ”
Why does she keep asking me questions? And why do I find it so amusing?
She tilts her head to the side, unknowingly mimicking my pose. “I think… Well, I have a feeling you’re a dog lover.”
My brows shoot up.
“I like cats, too, but I prefer dogs.” She clears her throat. “Maybe once my mom gets better and I can get a place of my own, I’ll visit a shelter and adopt one.”
Reaching for the beverage pitcher on the silver tray, filled with lemonade this time, I pour a glass and take it over. Handing it off just as I’ve done all of our Saturdays together before.
That familiar excitement courses through me as I watch her bring the drink to her lips and take a small sip. Have I finally guessed her preference?