"Closer to Perfect"

He collects ‘them’ – bits and pieces of his broken past and files them away. From time to time the memorabilia surfaces and he is taken down by the ghosts. Wrestling with them in his mind; replaying the songs over and over - the scenes that led to the demises – yet they never seem to be a broken record. Each little death carries its own flavour, definition, and nuance so he is never quite sure what happened or what could have been done to prevent the dissolution of his past relationships.

Some ghosts are stronger than others. They haunt him during waking hours. He will find himself with tears stinging his eyes as a song plays on the radio in his car; comes across an old photograph of him with his lover, or, perhaps a certain fragrance on a woman passing by; sometimes passing the restaurant where a first date took place and suddenly he finds himself falling down the rabbit hole of the past with no escape.

He forces himself to go out, to put himself in situations where he might meet someone to take the edge off of his losses. From time to time, when he manages to find a new prospect his hopes rise only to fall when they can’t seem to live up to his great expectations. The dates are excruciating at times. When he manages to get past a couple of dates and have a sexual encounter, it’s lackluster, paling in comparison to his last lover.

He’s a good looking man; he has his fair share of women giving him sidelong glances. Some are bold, others shy, reticent but always the interest is there. He never seems to go very long without a date, yet he begins to wonder why he is wasting his time, never theirs, they seem more than willing to spend the time so he reasons it’s a gift for them, a boon.

At times, due to work commitments, he finds himself in the seedier part of town. He’s not looking for anything in particular, perhaps it’s merely his way of comforting himself that he has not reached the depths of degradation – he still has some self control. After a particularly grueling meeting with a client he decides to stop one afternoon – he finds himself – almost on auto pilot – driving into the newer strip club that just sprung up recently – they seem to come and go with the decades, interchangeable, a fresh coat of pain, younger women but always the same feel. He decides it would not hurt him to grab a quick lunch and a drink though he’s not really a drinker. He enters the dark club. There’s smoke from the cigars of the afternoon businessmen – taking their respective customers to lunch, or sneaking in some fantasy time before they have to go home to the routine ordinariness of their wives.

He orders a drink and a sandwich from the buxom, barely-clad waitress who comes dangerously close to him – so close he can feel her breath, her more-than-likely fake breast grazes his upper arm – he feels nothing.

Things in the club seem to be going in slow motion – he hears stifled laughter of the women as they entertain, there’s almost a sound of skin brushing against surfaces a sense of movement and resistance, he can smell the perfume of women mingled with their sweat, the stale smoke, the cologne of the business men, the food, the underlying scent of industrial disinfectant. It’s not sexy, it’s all-too-human, and there a sense of desperation and spent lust hanging on the air. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the music begins, it’s a low bass beat with jazz undertones, seductive, occidental, the lights begin to come up on stage, heralding the entrance of yet another dancer.

She is young, younger than most of the women he’s seen in clubs like this. He wonders if she’s of legal age to be in here. He doubts anyone cares about such things. She has high cheekbones and dark brown hair cut close to her face, which accentuates her dark eyes and full lips. Although her form is sinewy, she has curves. She exudes pure femininity. She moves to the music almost as an afterthought, yet it’s as if the music is coming from within her –so fitting to her shape, her movements, they are one and the same. She seems out of place here, regal in her carriage, yet she fits, she embodies all that men come here for: all the longing, the desire, the unfulfilled lust. She’s the ultimate temptress yet you can’t touch her.

Suddenly and inexplicably he wants to talk to her. To find out what she’s doing here. His curiosity propels him to ask for a private dance from her. After a couple of minutes she shows up at his table. She is smoking a cigarette and has a robe of silk wrapped loosely around her. The robe shimmers, even in the darkness of the club, it hugs against her curves, making her seem even more voluptuous. She motions to him to follow her. They go into a private room. The décor is surprisingly modern, less seedy than the club itself – almost sterile. He begins to relax…the booze taking affect.

She walks over to the platform and began to disrobe. She wears a lace thong with a matching cap sleeve see-through lace jacket that ties at her neck, showing just enough to glimpse the swell of the roundness of her breasts. Her mocha-pink nipples are visible through the off-white lace. She looks young and fresh, her appearance belying the atmosphere of this place. Her body is taut almost like that of a ballet dancer but her softness is apparent in her shapely calves, the curve of her hips, and the slight fullness of her breasts.

She begins to dance for him, as she dances, she touches herself. She was hypnotizing herself with the music and her rhythmic movements. He wants her to stop but has no idea how to stop her without touching her. He clears his throat, hoping to get her attention. She slows and looks at him quizzically. He motions for her to sit down.
She begins to straddle his lap but instead he pats the spot next to him on the couch.

He clears his throat again.

“I just thought we’d talk”

She smirks a bit.

“Are you a priest or man of the cloth?”

He’s a bit taken aback by her question.

“No! Do you often get people like that here?”

She laughs, a little too bitterly. “You’d be surprised”

He wonders how to get her to open up to him – she’d probably be suspicious – despite her youthfulness he can tell she’s become somewhat jaded.

“So..what’d you want to talk about?” She asks breaking all the ice.

He sighs, relieved not knowing why he is relieved by this.

“I just thought I’d try to find out about you. You intrigue me. You are stunning and I wanted some time alone”

She wasn’t buying this. “Look this is getting expensive for YOU. What would you like me to do for you?”

“Let me take you to dinner” he blurts out…shocking both of them.

“Um…I don’t know” suddenly her callous veneer was slipping as she hesitated. “It may be against the rules”

This emboldened him “No one has to know”

She hesitates again. “I don’t know – let me think about it”

“I am not a regular here” he says. “I don’t want to miss out on some private time with you – I will make it very worth your while”.

She seemed to be mulling things over, he grew hopeful.

“No”. She stood up quickly, and slipped quietly out of the room.

He sits there stunned and embarrassed. He is not sure what to do – what if she reports him to the management? He looks around for an exit in the small room. There isn’t one to be found. He gathers up his coat and slinks out.

He makes it to his car unnoticed – no one stops him. He sits, collecting himself, trying to come to terms with what he has just done.

Never has he made such a bold move. Standing on the threshold of danger he feels he is bordering on insanity. The spontaneity of this is shocking to him, up until this point in his life, everything had been planned.

The urge lingers to see her, still; to talk to her, to unlock her secrets, to possess her. She has somehow insinuated herself into his psyche and he will not be able to rid himself of her stain easily.

He starts his car, deciding to head home. Tomorrow he will regroup, perhaps make another attempt to convince her of his sincerity.

He begins to drive away from the club, almost too quickly; he does not want to be caught here at night. He notices too late the dark figure that dashes out in front of his car, he hears the sickening thud and his stomach lurches.

He stops and gets out of the car...it is beginning to drizzle. Wetness claims the pavement and surrounding cars and buildings. The figure lies in a crumpled heap on the ground in the growing dimness. Liquid is beginning to pool around the head – he realizes its blood. He bends down and rolls the body over and nearly faints. Her colour has faded from her cheeks. Her sightless eyes gaze up at him, and the rivulets of blood begin to run down her face, staining the lace that is just visible under her coat.

He glances around. There is no one on the street.

He gets into his car again, gingerly guides it away from her body and drives into the growing darkness.