Fast Food

She was sitting at a two-seat table on the second floor, looking out the window at the passersby below, legs crossed seductively, biting a fingernail. I was seated a few tables over. Finishing my chicken sandwich, I took a large gulp of cola to wash it down and continued making furtive glances in her direction. I couldn't help it. It's not that she was spectacularly beautiful, but she possessed an intangible allure. That much was evident from the increased beating of my heart, and, if I am to be completely honest, the growing bulge beneath my boxer briefs.

Her hair was jet black. Straight. Unnaturally so. It looked as though it had been pressed by monolithic irons. Maybe it had. Nevertheless, it maintained a sheen so fine as to put the hair of any shampoo advertisement model's to shame. Her nose was oddly shapen, ostensibly the result of poor rhinoplasty. It curved up queerly at the end of the bridge; the edges of her nostrils looked like parentheses buffering no words; and the flesh looked as soft as clay. The folds of her eyelids were obviously the result of cosmetic surgery, the space between line and lash barely a millimeter apart. Her lips were full -- the top almost as much as the bottom -- and painted a dark pink. Every now and then she would take her fingernail out from between them and wipe it with a napkin to remove the lipstick. Her chest and torso were concealed by an oversized T-shirt, but to me what lied beneath her neck was irrelevant. Despite its flaws, I was captured by that face, enamoured.

I sat there pushing the ice in my glass around with a straw. I had an urge to walk over to her table and make an attempt at conversation, but what was I to say? Hi. I don't normally do this, but...? Would never work, especially not in this country. And while I haven't been one hundred percent faithful, in the ten-plus years I've been married I've never actively pursued an affair; I've always played the passive role, the prey rather than the hunter. Plus my ring finger tends to swell in the summer, and with the restaurant's milquetoast air-conditioning it would have been impossible to slip off. I sat there for another five minutes or so, full of desire, then left for the office.

Later, on my way home, I stopped at a small diner to grab a bite. Returning to my office after lunch, the memory of the girl was immediately pushed from my mind and replaced with facts and figures, but just then, as I sat waiting for my order, it returned with powerful clarity. Her raven hair. Her dark-pink lips. I was consumed by an indescribable lust.

I canceled my order and exited the diner, beads of sweat dripping into my eyes as I tried to collect myself. But I was overcome, past the point of no return. I turned off the main street onto a smaller one littered with neon signs. There are brothels everywhere you look here, if that's indeed what you're looking for. I was. They're as ubiquitous as 7-Elevens and newsstands; but once you take off your shoes, pay for the special service, undress and don a bathrobe, and step into a dimly lit room with no walls between bed and bath, you are in another dimension. One where night and day, summer and winter, cease to exist.

To say that I was nervous would be an understatement. But I had to follow through. There was no turning back, nor would I have done so had an exit door magically appeared. My sensuality knew no bounds. I was possessed by a force stronger than reason or rationality. I was like a man stranded long at sea, eager to drink salt water to quench my undying thirst, however fleetingly, and damn the consequences.

But my nerves got the best of me. An undulating cramp surged through my bowels. Aware that my "masseuse" would arrive shortly, I could nevertheless contain myself. I sat on the toilet, but my gastrointestinal redemption would not come. Resigned to the fact, I stood up. And that is when my girl, the girl walked in.

"Give me a sec!" I shouted as casually as possible given the situation. She, perhaps as embarrassed as I, shut the door. Right then my conscience begged, screamed, for me to leave, bad juju and all that. But I had to be sure. The girl who opened the door was the same girl from the restaurant, I was convinced. I lied on the bed and propped up my head with my arm.

Roughly two minutes later she reentered. And then there was no doubt. She was no longer wearing an oversized T-shirt, and her lips were covered with a shiny gloss, but it was the same girl from the restaurant, no question about it. She bowed slightly and smiled, her hair falling intermittingly over her face like bar code lines. Then she sat down next to me.

She asked me if I minded her smoking. I said no. She took out a gold-plated cigarette case from a small cabinet at the bed's head, opened it, offered me one (I declined, didn't feel like it), took one for herself and lit it. After her first drag she threw her head back and exhaled a plume of smoke, red in the room's light. God, she looked sexy then. Up until that point nerves and embarrassment had me convinced that despite my carnal lust I would never achieve a hard-on, but that one glance set everything right. Full force. As soon as she put out her cigarette I sat up and kissed her. Then we did other things.

Afterwards, I did feel like smoking. For I was sated. My pleasure fulfilled, I wanted only to smoke and sleep. And eat. I was hungry.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

"Canada," I lied.

"Really? My cousin lives in Victoria. I've never been, myself. I'd like to go there, though."

"Where have you been?"

"Nowhere, really. My parents live in Guam, but I'm stuck here. Sad, right?"

"I guess so."

Such small talk continued until, mercifully, a red light above the door buzzed, signalling my time was up.

"I can call the front desk and give us more time, if you really want to stay," she said.

"No, it's okay. It's late and I really should be getting home."

"I see."

Pause.

"Hey, if you ever come back ask for Silver. That's me."

"Will do."

After I left I stopped by a convenience store for a beer. I drank it on the way home. But my appetite got the better of me and I went back. I bought a wrapped chicken sandwich and a small tin of potato chips. I ate them sitting in a plastic chair in front of the store. Then I went home.

That was four months ago. I'm tempted to go back and see if Silver's still there, but she probably isn't.

Oh well.