Heart and Soul

"Close your eyes, I'm coming!"

His usual sensitive self, for sure, the considerate son of a bitch.

And he did, come that is, although the announced so powerful blast proved to be a puny trickle, hardly hazardous to anything but his own inflated self esteem. But I was the good girl, am I not always? I played along and pledged my eternal love affair with his bodily fluids, rolled my eyes and screamed out the kind of out-of-control orgasm that he is convinced that any woman blessed with his Neolithic attempt of lovemaking will inevitably reach. He grinned and grunted some unintelligible syllables that I knew would be a question: was I happy; did I loved him; did I worshipped his body; was I horny and ready for more; was I sleepy and wanted to sleep? Either way, to please him, I knew that I needed to nod and smile. And I have more than a handful of reasons to please him. A couple of million reasons. Why the fuck does time move so slowly?

*

Two years earlier.

They think that the deafening organ music prevents their evil tongues to reach my ears. Hardly.

One step down the aisle: "What on earth does she see in him?"

Another step: "He is so old! Over seventy!"

Yet another: "And isn't he the meanest old creature?"

One step after the other towards the altar: "She only marries him for the money!"

Echoing.

And so very true. He is a mean old fart. Add disgusting to that. But also disgustingly rich and hungry for a twenty four year old blonde also known as me.

*

Four months ago.

What good is it that I throw out my mirror with the garbage when his herd is surrounded by mirrors anyway? Walls, ceiling - even floor. The only way I can avoid looking myself in my face, decaying from pain and a generous consumption of Vicodin, is to close my eyes.

I live my life with closed eyes.

*

Two weeks ago.

Hope.

The doctor has taken me to the side, his young eyes - he is not older than I am - nervous, and he keeps his voice muted.

"Cut down on fatty food, no excitement for a while and for God's sake make sure that he sleeps at least six hours per night. And stay alert: Any numbness in the left arm needs immediate attention let alone chest pains."

A new hope, indeed.

This afternoon, I will start working out. Time to shape up - soon I'll be on the market.

*

This morning, he outran me. For two years, I have managed to stay faster in the track and why should I not? Age should make a difference. But no, he seems to grow younger every day whereas I seem to whither down a little bit every minute of the day.

My behind is still sore from his claiming his prize; the session was bearable because with each strike of the cane, he reminded me of how many millions would one day be mine. I would gladly have accepted one blow for each million, even though it would surely have killed me, if only he would perish too.

I am young, he says, but I feel like a hundred years old. Why won't he die?

*

I almost died this morning. Every heart condition that I have ever wished would strike him down travelled through my body. Thank God no one decided to stay for very long.

Bungee jump. Never again.

I was still lying on the ground, my legs like jelly, when they screamed for me to stay away.

Stay away?

Step by step I regained composure and suddenly I looked up and saw the thick rubber cord swaying loosely in the air. Yes, swaying slowly from side to side without any weight attached to its end that would ensure the regular swings of a pendulum. No, the weight was dead and lying on the ground. Amid the rapidly running feet around me, only then did I realize that I had heard the snap, the thud and the splash a mere couple of seconds ago.

I lay back on the ground. I smiled. They said I was in shock. Like hell I was.

*

Cleared of all charges. Not all that surprising but welcome nonetheless.

Naturally some old hag, a distant relative, wanted the incident investigated. She had been so close to the man, she said, and the marriage was nothing but a charade. But her pleas were in vain. No, not in vain: So convincing was her made believe grief that she was put on anti-depressant and apparently she didn't handle them too well.

I even visited her once in the asylum.

*

The lawyer.

Oh. My. God.

The man is grey, dry, lacking any trace of a sense of humor and his tie was probably high fashion two decades ago. But I want to jump him right here, right now; that is the sex appeal of the envelope that is in his hand.

The will.

Did he just read my mind? Or did I speak out loud? Doesn't that spark in his foggy eyes actually reveal his lust for me?

*

I didn't have to do it, to fuck him that is, I know I didn't. And I will be able to choose from the best of breed in a couple of hours. But this is the first sex in years that I have chosen myself. The grey lawyer was indeed the inexperienced forty five old virgin he appeared to be but he made up for his lack of skill with the craving enthusiasm only starvation will foster. I climaxed violently. Only now do I understand that I have lived my life without a true orgasm. Until now.

He even looks cute now; in his shorts, by his desk, fumbling with his papers very nervously.

Why is he nervous? A sudden chill sweeps through his little office and I pull his pin striped jacket closer around me. For no obvious reason I have become painfully conscious about my nudity and I am desperate to get dressed. Or rather: Get this over with; get my money, get dressed and then leave.

"This is a notice from the bank."

*

Three years earlier.

"This is a notice from the bank. They are taking the house."

I am twenty three years old and thrown out of my parents' home. They are being thrown out too. They won't survive Christmas. I decide that I will.

*

"Did your husband ever discuss his business with you?"

Shaking my head.

"For the last three years, your husband has received a pension - call it charity if you like - from some of his former business associates."

"Charity?"

Damn it, my voice is breaking.

"He sold his company at the price of a symbolic one dollar to a private equity firm three years ago. It was the only way to avoid the bankruptcy of his life's work."

I am shaking. A dark abyss opens beneath me, ready to take me as prey.

"The agreement included a pension, rather gold-plated if you ask me, but only payable for as long as your husband was still alive."

The lawyer rests on his newly won laurels of testosterone, scratches his balls and looks me in the eyes:

"Actually, your husband did not have any assets at all. Nothing. Even the clothes on his body were on loan."

It has not even started to sink in. The lawyer has transformed before me, turned from an insecure, stuttering book worm into a jet set stud.

"Do you know where you are going to live?"

"Pardon...?"

"The house. You can't live there any longer. The bank's notice gives you ten days to leave the property."

*

Convicted.

At least I have a roof over my head although I apparently picked the wrong state in which to murder a lawyer.

The day before Christmas, I am up for a blast in the chair.

Not one day too soon, if you ask me.