“Flirting is a promise of sexual intercourse without a guarantee.” —
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
She bore a name from my former side of the world, somewhere from the old hemisphere that to this day wows the planet with its women with porcelain, statuesque bodies and baby-doll faces. This kitten, however, was a bit closer to my own type: She stood no taller than 5’2’’, with enough give to her curves to want her, for the mere potential of her womb. But then again, underneath all that softness and sex, one wouldn’t dare to doubt her strength, and the perseverance that would be out of this world — or from the other side of it, at least. Her hair was longer than mine — the color of fire engine red — but it was just as wild; and when she brushed her fingers through it, she made herself purr, in some foreign phoneme.
“You smell nice,” was the first thing I told her, when I stepped inside her store and noticed her in the corner, rearranging the already aesthetically pleasing merchandise into color schemes better suitable for the coast of Brazil; not for my dusty neighborhood populated by exhausted artists. (We live here, temporarily, but permanently on the verge of breaking through. And in this balancing act between hope and timing, we manage to become better human beings.)
“Do I?” she said, while hanging up a floor-length dress of titillating design by stepping on her tippy toes; and when she came down, she flipped her mane of fire engine red, ran her fingers through it, and made her way over to me:
“Sure it’s me?”
In response, I began to sniff her. Tickled, she came even closer, leaning in her tan shoulders one at time toward my nose. To others, she could’ve appeared indifferent, or stoic at least. But she had come from my former side of the world; so I knew how to read that perfect mishmash of her old ways and the flamboyant ones, typical of the American womanhood. As I upped the speed and the intensity of my sniffing, she shimmied her shoulders and smirked: Oh, she was tickled alright!
With my face close enough to her chest to get the aerial view of her breasts, I delivered my verdict: “Yep: It IS you!”
“I just got my hair done, today. So, it must be from their product,” the Slavic kitten responded, took out her hair clip and shook out her mane, purposefully releasing more scent into the air. She knew the extent of her power: She owned it — in spades.
“Rrrrr,” I purred, with a phoneme from my former side of the world. “Delicious.”
As someone with enough confidence in the appeal of her merchandise, she would leave me alone while I absentmindedly floated through her store, pulling out one cloth after another — one more titillating than a previous one — and leaned them against my exhausted shoulders. (I had been at it, for days at a time — for years! — in this dusty neighborhood. In the balance between my hope and timing, I had put in the work, willingly; hopefully becoming a better human being — but never taking a break long enough to notice the difference.)
Yet, at all times, I was well aware of her vicinity; and I would occasionally sneak a peak at her shifting around of our surrounding aesthetics, always finding further limits, more room for perfection. And she would continue to purr — hum, perhaps — with phonemes, from the other side of the world.
I pulled out the floor length dress of titillating design, swooped up the spider-web textured sweater; snatched a backless shirt (or was it just a shawl?). The strategically colored frock, with slits and cutouts on its sides made me think in Spanish; and the streaked feather earrings tickled me with my dreams of Barcelona. Once all of my aesthetic choices were draped over my shoulder, I made it for the dressing room.
The Slavic kitten immediately appeared by my side:
“I want to see you, in all of these!” she purred while hanging up the clothes, one at a time. “Ooph!” she exhaled-whistled when glancing at the strategically colored frock, with slits and cutouts on its sides. “This one was built — for a girl like you!”
She was right: When in it, I slid the curtain of the dressing room, I found a reflection of the woman of whom I dreamt back in the brutal clasp of my anxious, uncertain, un-confident 20s. The creature of tan heath, with enough give to her curves but equal strength — demanded more life, and more beauty, and more adventure. And much more sex.
“Mmm-hmm,” the kitten was immediately purring at my side while kneeling down, with her engine fire red mane in the vicinity of my upper thigh. She looked up and I caught myself wondering about her tickled stoicism, if in the nude.
“This — is my favorite part,” she smirked — and with a confident pull of a index finger, she undid the cutout above my hip. The cloth gave. The slit pulled open, reveling the tan lines from my dainty bikini bottom, and the giving curve of my lower stomach, leading to my womb.
“Where the fuck did my breath go?” I thought. “How dare she steal it like that?”
And just how much was she willing to vow before finding herself in the midst of breaking my heart?
The dress — would go home with me, that night. She wouldn’t. But she would smirk — with that tickled stoicism of someone from my former side of the world — ever so slightly. And while already kneeling at the thigh of the next girl, she would purr:
“Come and play with me, here. Anytime!”