With Interest Ch. 5

Penelope re-emerged at her place, with an easy look of propriety, just as our waiter approached the table. He hesitated for a moment, but I beckoned him approach. His eyes were wide as he tried not to stare at my lunch partner. Penelope gave him an innocent smile as she finished straightening herself, touched her slightly soiled napkin to her lips, then consulted the menu, as if nothing had occurred. "Thank you," I said to her, before turning my attention to our order.

Lunch was, of course, terrific, and we engaged in chatter of little consequence as we ate. Once dessert and coffees were served, and we were alone again, I came to the point I had been avoiding. "Well, Penny, your debt to us is completely repaid; you've completed your obligation admirably, so I guess you're free to go. You can gather your belongings from the office this afternoon. Good luck." I tried to keep my voice as neutral as possible. Penelope's jaw dropped and she leaned forward, staring at me wide-eyed.

"You're kidding," she muttered, "aren't you?"

I raised my eyebrows, "No. It's true. You're finished."

In the moment's silence, Penelope's cheeks flushed bright red. There was anger in her voice as she spoke. "Hold on. You can't just throw me away like that – discard me like a – a – used condom. You can't get rid of me that easily."

"I'm not tossing you away; I'm setting you free. Our contract is ended."

"But, what if I don't want to be free?" she asked, becoming loud and agitated, an edge of hysteria in her tone.

I don't know if I really was surprised, but I know I was delighted. I gestured for calm, replying, "Well, I don't know. I never thought of that." And I had deliberately, over the past year, not let myself go there. "I mean, as wonderful as you are – as you've been, you've cost the business well over half a million dollars so far. I don't know that we can afford to keep you on."

Regaining her composure, somewhat – sitting up erect and straightening her shoulders, she said slowly, with certainty, "Then I'll work for less." Her business-like statement didn't quite mask her desperate eagerness.

"Well, I'd have to think about that," I said, shaking my head. I pulled out my Palm, more as an object of focus than for the few simple calculations I did on it. "Okay," I said, looking into her anxious visage, "I can keep you on for twenty bucks an hour." She tensed and let out a faint gasp, but I continued before she could say anything. "Your bonuses, however – I don't know. I think the best I can do is ten percent – that is, one tenth your previous scale." I laid my hands on the table in a gesture of helplessness, and said quietly, "Will that work for you?"

It was her turn to shake her head. "No," she replied softly.

"I – what else can I…"

"No," she repeated, interrupting me, then reaching across the table she took my hands in hers. I stared at her, puzzled.

She shook her head sadly, and dropped her gaze then went on softly, "No bonuses."

"What?" I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly.

"No bonuses. I've prostituted myself enough."

I felt a stab of dread rise in my core. "Oh my God," I thought, "I mean, as fabulous a business assistant as she is, I don't think I could now, suddenly, do this as a non-sexual relationship. I couldn't handle that." She raised her face and looked in my eyes, seeing, no doubt, my fear and confusion, but she smiled.

"I love my job," she explained, "although, based on some deeply residing morality, I don't always actually like it – some of what I've been called upon to do." I waited, wondering where this was going. "While I have always performed my duties conscientiously," she said wryly, "I'm still whoring – there's no denying that." She paused, finding her words. "And – that notwithstanding – I've come to realize, as much as I think this must all be somehow wrong – old morals do die hard – I – what? – crave, I guess, crave the carnality of our arrangement – of my position. I don't know if the vast spectrum of sex I've had has been a curse or a blessing, but it has been a mind-blowing, eye-opening experience. I think I know, now, how a drug addict feels – the incredible highs, the transient regrets." Penelope released my hands and let her own fall palm-up on the table between us. Shrugging her shoulders, she said, "I'm addicted to this – I'm addicted to directed sex." She shook her head again, slowly, meditatively, as if even she too were surprised by her candor.

Then shaking off her own wonder at the way things work out, she completed her explanation, clearly, almost formally. It was, indeed, an acceptance speech. "So I will gladly accept the position at twenty dollars an hour. But I no longer want to have to look upon the extra activities in which I partake as duties or obligations, nor do I want you to view them as services rendered." She leaned forward, as if to emphasize her next point, and speaking in a voice of complete earnestness, she continued. "I still want to perform those extras, but only because I want to – because you've asked me to. Don't worry, I'll still do what you ask, whether that be sucking a client or gangbanging associates, but I'll do it because I've chosen to." She paused, holding me with her eyes, then added, "And because I love you."

"Jesus, Penny. What can I say?"

"You can tell me, Mr. Jackson, that you still want me to work for you – that I still have the job," she said modestly.

"Of course I do," I stuttered, "Of course you have!" We stared at each other for, it seemed, a very long time, both of us trying to read something incomprehensibly hidden in the other's eyes.

Finally, in no more than a whisper, she said, "Thank you, sir."

"And, Penny," I breathed, surprising myself with my honesty, "I love you, too!"

She leaned into me, snaking her hands into my shirt, pressing her cheek against my chest. Encircling her shoulders, I held her, still and silent. My castle in the sky had taken on substance – transcended the fantastic – and, with increasing resolution, our implausible reality persisted.