Last Thursday, I had someone come to look through my apartment. She’s just moved over from Melbourne. Friend of a friend. Probably about twenty-eight, with the tightest little body. And huge tits. God knows why she’d want to come here—they’ll be wasted. Might be someone you’d be interested in seeing sometime. She’s in the paper under S-e-x-i L-e-x-i, size six Thai, double-D, blah blah.
He was thirty-nine when they started seeing each other. She’d refused to tell him her age, but she would have been about thirty-two. The first time, she’d gone straight for his crotch. All attack, like a tigress. He’d treated it more like a job interview, barely stopping short of asking for references. They’d spoken about hygiene, and although his first impression of her was that she was careless, she passed all of his standards. The first time they made love (fuck me harder, she’d growled, over and over), he’d decided she was not the one for him.
But this changed the first time he watched her dress. She was all elbows, wasted movements and inefficiency. It was revolting to see at first, but he knew that he wanted to watch her again the following week. He hadn’t dated anyone else.
After I left last week, she said, slipping on her shoes, I went out to dinner with Nancy—she’s a hooker too, but a little more high-class. She used air quotes when she said high-class. Anyway, my old roommate—she’s not so high-class—was supposed to go overseas with her, but got genital warts. Nasty. The tickets were non-refundable, so she’d offered to take the extra spot. A working holiday, she said.
There was no four-weeks’ notice; it was just, I won’t be back anymore.
His heart felt like it was coming up his throat, and he couldn’t breathe. He thought he was dying. She laughed, made him put his head between his knees, told him he was only having a panic attack.
She pinched the flab under her arms, said she was getting close to retirement anyway.
I used to think that Mr Right would come along one day . Unfortunately, he was her last client. No offence, she said, like it made a difference.
They were going to Moscow first—the Russians loved Aussie accents. Da, I vant to suck your caaack, she had a terrible Russian accent. Then they’d probably end up somewhere in Italy, where she would learn the words for cock and pussy, and ply her trade long enough to find some wealthy Italian benefactor. She said she still might be able to show them a thing or two. Again that laugh. And, if that failed, she might just get a real job, maybe work on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean. She mimed picking glasses up off a table.
She stayed an extra fifteen minutes. When he started to cry, she held him. She whispered words in his ear, reminding him of his mother, Oh honey, it’s not your fault.
That night, for the first time, he asked her to stay, agreeing to pay the extra two hundred dollars. They shared the steak and potatoes and broccoli. He had a glass of red wine, while she finished the bottle. It wasn’t the week for chocolate, but he opened a new block and they split it.
That night, they made love again, but he didn’t change the sheets afterwards. She snored like a chainsaw, mouth agape. He slept fitfully, awaking often, startled to find someone in bed next to him. Each time, she lifted her head sleepily and blinked at him, before dozing off again.
In the morning, they made love for the last time.
He cooked her porridge and coffee, then shook her hand at the door.
As she left, she kissed him goodbye. This time, full on the lips.
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Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 16, Issue 6 Page 2