Love Story Of A Call Girl

Bearing in mind that I did not wish to get caught in the rain, I hastened my pace to the lively part of the boulevard. I was to meet a client for the night called Mr Boardmann at a restaurant of his choosing. Penelope told me that it was a stone's throw away from his penthouse suite.

The row of buildings at the boulevard emitted colours of an array of orange hues at night. Lights from posh restaurants dimmed at timed intervals in the middle of the stylish tables, giving diners an enhanced glow on their features. When I peered in from the windowsills outside, all I could think of was the painting of Van Gogh's Potato Eaters. I saw a similarity between the present day style of dining and that of peasants back in 1885. Like moths attracted to a light source, the diners had congregated around the table like it was their lifeline. I sought to mock the diners and the Mr. Boardmann whom I did not know.

Dimmed lights were the colour of earthly hues and its diners were having potatoes from those hands which had not seen a day's hard labour. That was the difference with the painting. White-collared people talked about stock markets and how to capitalize on them. Nothing which was the tangible result of what I could smell, feel and see when I bought a morsel of food to my mouth. I always thought it noble to toil the earth with your b.a.r.e hands and to reap its rewards. That I did, and was proud of myself until the earth could no longer sustain the crops.

To cope with the failed crops, my mother took to the streets. She was a beautiful woman, had snow-white skin and lovely, plump lips. To the locals, she was considered a prize. However she had no known husband and she had a daughter. It nullified her bankable marriage value.

I preferred eating in brightly lit eateries. My eating preferences were shaped by my childhood. When I was younger, we had no electricity in our hut and we could not see what we were eating. Many a time I had eaten bugs and swallowed drunken ants from my cup. How did I know? Well, certain things you just know by its taste. They were protein, my mother said. Eat them and appreciate that they came to you. Ironically here, in new-age organic shops, bugs were touted as the latest super food at such ridiculous prices.

I was aware of the irony in my thoughts as I walked into the Michelin-starred restaurant. An impeccably dressed waiter led me into one of the quieter, private corners where he was seated. Through the dimmed lights, I saw him for the first time as he rose to greet me. He must have come straight in from work. He wore a collared long-sleeved white shirt combined with formal pants. A black coat was flung carelessly over his seat.

He was of impressive height, towering above me. Having stood side by side, I reached only the level of his shoulders. He was well-built. He was in possession of a firm, chiseled c.h.e.s.t and a lean figure.

Dimmed lights were ideal for candlelight dinners; concealing every imaginable bit of facial flaw of the lover, all ready to impress. With him, it was the exact opposite. Dimmed lights accentuated precisely how ill he looked. What had stood out was the tone of his skin, which was pale; his complexion sunken. He brought with him a ghastly air. He had an oval face, a high forehead and well-boned nose. His lips were thin. It did little to cover his perfectly-lined pearly teeth. He bore a contrast of facial misnomers. I wondered whether people were too polite to stare.