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A man walks home after a dinner party, and meets a helpful woman. His thoughts turn to the possible rewards he could get from her, before finding out what their meeting is really all about.

Submitted:Sep 24, 2012    Reads: 50    Comments: 2    Likes: 0   

Coming from work, I was walking down the road. I looked at my watch, which was an almost indistinguishable copy of a real rolex and saw that it was nearing 11 PM. I had stayed way too long. Melissa had to be a bit worried. But after-work parties are something you neither can nor want to opt out of. My head felt a bit disordered. It had only been a few glasses of wine though. Damn fine one, too, I am told. A 1986 french one. "Chateau de" something or other. It sounded kind of noble when my friend told me about it. And yes, there maybe was a glass or two of whiskey, but you can't survive a party on wine alone.

Why had they built the damn parking space so far away from the main building, anyway? It only complicates things when you have had a few good drinks and are then forced to find your car. I turned down the alley, which lead through some ostentatious park, which they had built there as part of a "we're green" campaign or some such nonsense, to the parking lot. It was there that I saw a woman sitting on a bench. I could barely make out her features in the poor light. She was obviously black, or african-american as they say these days. I never understood why the name you gave to ethnicities was so damn important. They sure made a lot of fuss about it. Her clothes were dark, but which colour, I couldn't tell.

I decided to walk past as fast as I could. It's better to avoid all sticky situations where I might be seen alone in a dimly lit park with a woman. They say that a few of them actually only wait there for an idiot to come along, then cry for help and sue you for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn't even give her a glance, but I stumbled and fell flat on my stomach.

"Ouch!" I cried. Damn alcohol. Every time you promise yourself you will never drink it again and each time you are bound to break that pledge.
She came up to me and helped me up. "Where are you headed?" she asked me.
"I'm going home."
"Ah, so you live close by then?"
"No, it's still a 30 minute drive. But I need to get going, excuse me please."

That forceful tone gave me pause.
"I think you got a wound there on your forearm. I live just a few blocks from here. We should quickly disinfect it before you head home."
"Me? Go to your house? Um... I can just get this disinfected when I get home."
"Wound infections are very dangerous, you know. This has to be treated as quickly as possible."
"So they say in all those medical TV series. But look, we don't even know each other. Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Yes, we don't know each other. But we really need to get that wound clean. Besides, we can easily fix your problem of not knowing me." she said in a somewhat deeper voice than before.

Well, what do you think happened then? What usually happens when a man is controlled by his hormones rather than his head.
"Oh damn it... why not? Don't keep me too long though. I really should get home" I said, with less forcefulness than I tried to put into this sentence.

Despite being only "a few blocks away", we still had to walk for about 15 minutes. Damn, I could have been halfway home by then and here I was following this woman who I didn't even know, or hadn't even had a decent look at. Maybe she was more ugly than Ms. Hill, our secretary and that's saying something.

I still remember that there was no moon in the sky. She always walked in front, so I never got a look at her face. I was just about to convince myself that this was foolish and to try and tell her that I needed to go, when she suddenly said: "We're here."

We were standing in front of an obviously old house, looking a bit worn. From what I could make out in the street light, it had a yellow colour which had to offend even the most modern artist. The door looked as if it had recently been replaced. I wondered what type of action had prompted this woman to change her door.
She opened it and motioned me to get in. I followed her, with a mixture of excitement and a bad conscience.

She turned on the light, which was way too bright for my weary eyes. In addition, it was one of those lamps which gave off this clean white light, which makes you feel as if you are in an operating room. From the small passageway in which we were standing, two doors lead to the left and one to the right. The lamp was hanging from the ceiling and the entire corridor was painted in a light green. Whoever this woman was, her taste was terrible.

Turning the handle to the first door, she lead me into a living room which had the exact same annoying white light and green painting. It had a red sofa in the middle, with a small wooden table standing in front of it. At the wall opposite the couch was a non-flat TV. Who on god's green earth doesn't have a flat TV screen yet? It also had what probably should have passed off as a bar on the right side, with bottles of all sorts standing in a shelf. While the bar itself wasn't that stylish, the drinks were a whole different story. Whiskey, Brandy, Tequila (silver and gold), Rum... She pretty much had it all. Perhaps I was going to enjoy my self a little after all. A little bookshelf on the left side with some romance novels completed the picture of this inviting and at the same time repulsing living room.

"So, let me get the disinfectant.", she said. "You can wait on the couch. Just give me a minute."
I sat down and had to admit that despite the horrible contrast its red colour was to the green walls, the sofa was rather comfy. Her "give me a minute" couldn't have been meant literally, for she took almost five to come back. While I was waiting, I was thinking about what I should talk with her about and what this evening had in store for me.

Then, she suddenly came through the door. She had a piece of cotton and a bottle with some red liquid with her. She sat down next to me and started preparing like a surgeon for a major operation. This was the first time I really had a good look at her. Her figure was rather trim. She was obviously into the sports craze, since her arms were well built. Her face, I noticed, had not a single pimple. Wonder what she product she used, since my wife was always fighting a losing battle against those red dots in her face. The woman's nose was small, with no visible nasal bone. Her dark hair was long, extending about halfway down her back. As is usual for african-americans, her eyes were a dark shade of brown. Her rather large breasts and wide hips completed the picture of a woman who I was beginning to find more and more interesting.

She evidently noticed my stare, which I tried to hide as best as I could, but she still smiled.
"All right, let's have a look at you." she said, taking my arm and looking for the place where I had injured myself. She applied the cotton, red from that stuff she had brought in, to my wound. A quick hissing noise escaped my lips as this stuff burned like pure alcohol. 'There goes my manliness', I thought to myself.
She removed the cotton again and kept her hand on my arm for a split second too long. This was beginning to make me nervous.
"This should do it. Don't scratch it."
"Thank you", I answered.
She put the cotton back on the table. "You know... I am glad you came here with me.", she said, looking dreamily into the air. I was beginning to feel hot and cold at the same time. This wasn't a good sign. I shouldn't even have been there.
Then, she looked at me again with her deep, dark eyes and held my gaze for a moment or two, before again looking off into the distance, blushing slightly as she did. This made me instinctively hide that golden ring on my finger and hoping silently that she hadn't seen it yet. I felt ashamed of myself, but still couldn't get myself to leave.
She pretended to adjust her skirt a bit, while I continued staring at her. When she was done, she sat a bit closer to me. A faint smell of coconuts made me hazy. My stomach was beginning to feel as if I had a thousand ants in there. This woman was playing such an obvious game and yet she still had me hooked. Damn alcohol.

Then, out of the blue, she took my hand into hers. I could feel her smooth skin on mine, sending a tingling through my arm and to my back. This melted my last resistance I had against her. She looked at me:
"Say... I'm a little bored. How about we hit the road for a little trip before coming back here?"
At this point, I wasn't even thinking any more. This hot gal obviously wanted me to do her. A bit of bar hitting first and I'd probably have the sex of a lifetime. I answered almost like a robot.
"Yeah sure."
She sighed a bit. "I only have a small prius though. Not a really good car to take out for a nice drive." Ah, of course. The rest of the house hadn't exactly betrayed a lot of wealth. I knew what she wanted to say with that last remark.
'Let me help you with that my little bunny' I thought to myself, pulling out my Mercedes car keys with pride. "Well, how about this? Is this better to hit some bars with?"
"Oh yes, definitely", she said, while looking at me kinkily and snatching the keys from my hand with an exaggerated gesture.

Then, she said: "Well, this has been great fun for me."
Those last few words were a bit confusing. I thought the fun was just starting.
"Excuse me?" I said, with a slow, nervous feeling creeping up on me.
"Yes you know, I shouldn't have done it like this, but I didn't feel like giving you any trouble, so consider this a favour."
Now I could almost feel the wheels in my mind turning like jet turbines, while my heart sank almost to my knees.
"Wait, what?"
"You see, you wanted to drive home. In your condition!" This really did it. I wasn't in need of a moral tantrum about drinking and driving.
"Yeah, so? What's it to..."
She cut me off in mid-sentence: "I'm a cop."
For a moment, I thought this must be some kind of a bad joke. Then, the reality kicked in again.
"Normally, I should have just let you walk to your car. As soon as you had inserted your key and turned on that engine, I could have busted your sorry ass. But I'm feeling charitable today, so I'll let you keep your licence.
If my heart had sunken to my knees before, it was now located somewhere below ground level. I was wondering what she wanted from me, when she seemed to read my thoughts and answered that for me.
"Here's how this goes: I already called for a taxi, should be here any minute now. You will tell that taxi driver your address, I will give the driver your keys and he will give them to you when you arrive. You will tip him generously, then you will go home and apologize to your wife for being such a jerk."
I was too baffled to answer anything intelligent to this authoritative tone of voice and turn of events. After a few seconds of silence which felt like forever, I tried to regain my composure.
"Are you even allowed to do that? I mean aren't you worried I could sue you for this?"
"Don't make me get tough with you. Sue me for what? As far as I'm concerned, you're just a lonely drunk who wanted a night with me and gave me his keys in the process. I'm off duty, remember? I can take home whoever I want. Your marriage, for what it's worth, will burst like a bubble when I tell the judge and her about how you looked at me: Your drooling expression and needy stare. You know, you don't even deserve your wife who is waiting for you to come home while you are here hoping to screw me. Now, any other genius thoughts come to your mind?"
Nope. Certainly not. I knew that now was the right time to shut up. My pride lay shattered on the floor like a burst vase at this point and there wasn't much to do about it any more.

After about another minute, there was a ring at the door. She answered it, escorted me to the taxi and gave the driver my keys. She went back to her home without saying goodbye.

My wife caused quite a scene, but she accepted the excuse that the after-work party had just dragged on a bit too long. Maybe she also simply didn't want to know the whole story. I thought that whoever that police woman was, she probably had been right with her assessment: I don't deserve Melissa.

A week later or so, after I had digested what this woman had done to my self esteem, I actually took the trouble to find that house again. It was a bit difficult at first, trying to remember where I had gone in my drunk state, but this ugly yellow colour stood out. I then apologized politely and thanked her for all she had done and for not busting me up. It seemed like the right thing to do, anyways. I admit that while I am grateful to her for not taking away my license or causing a scene, I still silently hate her for the way she treated me and stomped on what little pride I had.

Since then, even though I have to walk five minutes more, I have avoided that parking lot and the park.


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