‘Charlotte’s Search’ Box Set Two

Sample Taken From the Book

Approx 5,000 words – Edited from the original to bring together related scenes….

Twenty-Six Years Ago – Klempner

I can’t think straight. My work doesn’t hold my interest. My concentration is blown.
An image of emerald-green eyes follows me.
What are you doing now?
I want to see her.
I want to see her. Not the pro, but her.
She’s a whore. A professional. But still I want to see her.
It’s ridiculous.
She’s one of dozens….
Hundreds….
Mitch…
“… Finchby is asking if you can supply more exotics….” I tune back to the real world. Bech is looking at me oddly. “Sir?”
“Yes?” I snap. “What?”
“What do you think of that idea? Finchby is asking for Asians and Orientals. Both sexes and specifically the younger ones.”
“Right….”
Get your mind back on it….
“…. I may be able to arrange something, yes. I was planning trips next year to the Middle-East and around Rwanda. I could pull those forward.”
Bech nods, pursing his lips as he jots a note. “Very good. Anything else?”
“Yes, with all the turmoil in Eastern Europe right now, I want to investigate the opportunities there. Something big’s brewing, politically speaking and that means population movement….”
“I agree, sir.” He sucks the top of his pencil then, “Yes, East Germans, Poles, even Russians maybe….” Bech drones on….
Where does she live?
She keeps it secret, of course.
For good reason in her line of work….
All kinds of crazies out there….
Could be anyone trying to find her out….
“Is there anything else, sir? For now?”
“No, that’s fine, Bech. I’ll make some calls and get back to you.”
Without preamble, he snaps his notebook closed and leaves.
Mitch….
And with a shock, I realise that I’m dressing to go out.
Shirt….
Tie….
Shoes polished….
Pants and jacket….
Who are you trying to impress?
This is stupid….
And yet, with a kind of inevitability, I find myself at the hotel bar.
But, she’s not there. Her stack of newspapers, journals and magazines lies on the bar, to the passer-by, just hotel property, but she’s not here….
“Evening, sir.” Angelo’s face is bland. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a beer.”
I sit, surveying the room from my bar-stool. And there, behind the bar; a collection of designer shopping bags tucked into a corner.
Angelo, polishing a glass, catches my eye and strolls over to stand close by. His voice low, “Mitch is working.”
*Disappointment*
“Think she’ll be back this evening?”
He shrugs. “Depends doesn’t it?”
Of course it does….
“I’ll wait awhile.”
“As you like, sir. Just call if I can get you anything else.”

*****

I drink the beer.
And then another beer.
And just as I am about to give it up as a bad job and go, Mitch appears. Looking lovely as ever she sashays through the entrance. But as she gets closer, the circles under her eyes are not quite hidden by her make-up.
Nonetheless, as she sees me, the required smile paints itself over her face. “Hi, Larry. Just you tonight?”
The question irritates. “Frank and I are not tied at the hip. Maybe I’d like you to myself for a change. Have you as my own.”
She gives me a smile like a knife….
Touched a nerve?
My choice of phrase?
“I don’t belong to anyone,” she says. Her voice is glacial. “I am not available for purchase. Only for hire.”
What’s that about?
Then she shakes her head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m tired that’s all. Mind if I take five minutes? I’ve not been on my feet all day.”
“Of course I don’t mind. Let me get you a drink. And to tell the truth, all I really wanted was to talk….”
“Talk? All you really wanted?”
“Yes, talk.” She looks frankly unbelieving. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Angelo, can I have a coffee, please….”
He starts to move, but I interrupt him. “Have something stronger. Just have a drink with me.”
Her head tilts. “Didn’t think that was your thing….” Then her smile blooms. “Angelo, cancel that coffee. I’ll have a gin and tonic.”
“I’ll have the same.”
Two G&Ts arrive, crisp and cold and dry with a slice of lemon. She sips. “So, what would you like to talk about?”
Fuck….
I hadn’t got that far.
I taste my own drink, trying to think of something that qualifies as conversation. Then I sight her National Geographic, topping the stack on the bar. “So, what do you think of German reunification?”
Her face lights up. “It’s fantastic, isn’t it. All those people. They were as good as slaves before. But now they can find their families again. Enjoy all the things we do….”
“Perhaps they enjoyed the way they were living before?”
An immaculately manicured fingernail points to me. “And how many reports have you seen of defectors crossing the no-man’s-land to cross into Eastern Germany?”

*****

“I’ll say goodnight then.”
“Night, Larry. And thank you.” Her face is soft, her eyes wide. “I’ve enjoyed the chat.” Mitch leans across, places her fingers on mine. “It’s not often I meet someone who really wants to talk.” She smiles and kisses my cheek.
She smiles and kisses my cheek….
It shivers through me….
Something pulses, banging to the tips of my fingers. There’s a hammering behind my ears….
She frowns. “Is something wrong?”
“No….” My hands are tingling. “No, nothing at all. Night, Mitch.”
I turn, and I leave….

*****

I’m not tired. Anything but.
Instead, the excitement drums through me. At some level, I know I’m running on adrenaline, serotonin and alcohol.
And I don’t give a fuck. I’m flying….
She kissed me.
The woman who will give head but won’t kiss, just kissed me on the cheek.
When was the last time someone kissed me?
?
?
I can’t remember….
Isn’t it something mothers are supposed to do?
Did she ever do that to me?
I have no idea. No memory.
There is zero possibility I’ll sleep, so instead, just outside the hotel, I find an all-night cafe and order coffee.
Caffeine….
I’m going to be up all night anyway….
Might as well be alert….
The coffee is strong, harsh and black: just what both body and mind crave right now. I down the first cup almost in a single gulp, then order a second. Conscious that I’m jittery….
Bland food….
…. I order a plain omelette and sip the coffee.
And as the food arrives and the plate hits the table, I see her. The fork poised half-way to my mouth, I freeze.
Mitch emerges from the rear exit of the hotel, takes a sharp right and walks towards the shabby end of town.
Somehow, I had always assumed she would take a cab, but here she is, on foot….
Saving money?
…. heading for areas which….
Have I ever cared before?
No….
I do now….
…. which I don’t want her to walk through….
With some astonishment, it dawns on me that I care….
Her elegant suit is gone, replaced with jeans and a jacket. Her elegantly arranged hair is now tied back in a simple ponytail. The high heels have been replaced by practical and comfortable trainers. She steps out quickly into the darkened streets.
Where is she going?
Home?
Where does she live?
She walks at a brisk pace that will eat distance and get her back indoors quickly.
I gulp down, two… three bites of the omelette, wash it down with a swallow of the coffee, slam a ten down onto the table and exit….
…. then pull myself up short.
A single woman….
…. Finding herself trailed in the night by a lone man….
I hang in the exit of the cafe, waiting until Mitch has walked some distance, then as she rounds a corner, I follow.
She vanishes from sight and I pick up my pace. My stride lengthens….
Don’t lose her….
…. And I take the corner myself just in time to see her turn left around the next block. Once more, I step out, my footsteps quickening. But as I round the corner….
Where is she?
I run, looking wildly in all directions, but Mitch has vanished from sight.
Fuck….
Still, I have a starting point to find her again.

*****

The following evening, picking up her trail on the road I lost her previously, I settle into another of the all-night cafes common in the area. With a newspaper, a view out onto the street and regular coffee top-ups, I wait. And I watch.
It’s well past midnight before a familiar figure, again wearing jeans, trainers and a thick jacket, appears at the head of the road, walking in the same direction as when I lost her previously. Looking neither right nor left, she makes her way through the night streets.
And this time, I’m watching to see where she turns off. As she takes a right and vanishes, I knock back my coffee and follow.
The night is still, and I curse my choice of leather-soled shoes. My footsteps echo; a steady click-click to tell anyone there is someone following. Even though I hang back, Mitch is surely aware that there is someone behind her.
She halts and turns, looking back, and I duck into an alley. After a moment she sets off again, her footsteps quickening.
After another half-mile or so, she turns in at a tall building, four stories high. Marching smartly up stone steps to the front door, she turns the key looking over her shoulder again, then vanishes inside. After a minute, a light flickers on at the third floor.

*****

How to be invited into her apartment….
If I turn up her door, she’ll freak out….
It has to be casual….
An ‘accidental’ meeting….
I dress. Shirt, shoes, suit, tie….
Then, at the last moment, I hang the suit back in the wardrobe and instead pick out jeans, a casual linen shirt and sneakers.

*****

Mitch’s neighbourhood is better than my first impression suggested: budget stores and cheap apartments, but not occupied by the dregs; more the sort of area where the average working man can afford to live.
For the most part, paint is fresh, windows are clean, the locals clear up after their dogs, and the litter which in other areas swirls in the winter winds, here is thrown into bins.
Living here might not be glamorous, but she’s safe….
When did I start wanting you to be safe?
I find excuses to hang around the area, taking my evening walks through the dim streets, strolling past shop windows full of gaudy consumer crap and cheap bling, tinkling pointless jingles.
The lights twinkle red and gold and green, like so many eyes…
Green eyes….
Get a grip, man
But in the evenings, of course, she’s not there.
So instead, I take my strolls in the morning. Winter is biting and even through thick gloves, my fingers are numb. A street vendor sells me soup in a paper cup which I cradle for the heat before I drink it.
What am I doing here?
?
?
Should I just knock on her door?
But I know, with gut-clenching certainty, that simply turning up at Mitch’s home is a recipe for disaster.
Stalker…. Maniac…. Predator….
Frustrated, I find a bench at the end of her road, sitting with my soup, trying to figure a way to engineer a chance meeting.
Something catches my peripheral vision….
…. A flash of red….
What did I see?
Turning, I don’t see what attracted my attention, but something in my head is shouting, jumping in the air and waving arms at me.
What was it…?
Ahhh….
Across the street is a small second-hand bookshop; the kind with tiny windows and a narrow entrance which only opens on the second Sunday of the month. The door stands open, seeming to lead no-where except dark shelf-stacks that a Victorian explorer would lose himself in. And through the entrance, just visible, a head of copper-red hair.
I find myself smiling. Tossing the dregs of the soup into a bin, I follow my feet across the road and into the store.
The lighting is dim….
It’s selling books…. Surely they need lights….
…. and has that odd mix of scents you find in such places, old leather, mildew, paper and dust. It doesn’t matter. What I came for is right ahead of me.
“Hello, Mitch.”
She startles, jolting back on her haunches from where she is peering at low shelves of travel books.
“Oh! Hello, Larry.” She stands, a tattered volume in one hand, pushing her hair back behind her ears with the other. Then she smiles at me. “That’s not a face I expected to see. Do you come here often?”
“I’ve never been here before in my life.”
“Ah….” Comprehension touches her face, then she looks me up and down. “You’re looking very casual. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a suit before.”
“Everyone has a day off. You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.” She touches my chest. “It suits you. You should be casual more often.”
My heart beats a drumroll against my ribs.
What to say…?
Fucking small-talk….
I glance down. “Not your usual shopping.” A heavy canvas bag, worn at the corners and with a frayed handle, is loaded with books. She says nothing, sucking at her lips and looking away.
“Oh, I get it.” I huff a laugh. “The designer bags are part of the costume?”
Her eyes roll to mine. “You’ve got me.”
Now what?
“Can I get you, um, a coffee or something?”
“Larry, I have days off too. I’m, um, off-duty.”
“It’s just a coffee.” I hold up palms. “I promise you my intentions are strictly honourable.”
Her mouth quirks. “In that case, yes, thank you. I’d love a coffee.”
She turns to the counter. “I’ll take this as well please, Cliff.”
A gnome of a man wraps the book in a creased brown-paper bag. I squint a look at the title. Nothing to Declare: Memoirs of a Woman Traveling Alone.

*****

Outside, Mitch gestures down the street. “There’s a little place down the road I sometimes stop for coffee.”
Without giving her a chance to refuse, I take the bag of books from her. “Let me carry that for you.”
The ‘little place’, a small cafe, is mainly occupied by student types. They sit in groups, wearing bohemian clothes and cheap gothic jewellery, arguing loudly. It’s not quarrelling, but debate of the kind you get from the types that think they know the secrets of the universe, or they can put the world to rights by talking about it.
“Interesting place,” I comment, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my tone.
Her lips make that quirk again; a sort of half-smile that would make the Mona Lisa long to be more subtle with her body language.
She chooses a table by the window, speaking in a low voice. Humour dances at the corners of her eyes. “It’s always interesting. Some of them can be quite profound. Some of them wouldn’t know their ass from their elbow. But there’s always cheap entertainment to be had here for the price of a coffee.”
“Speaking of which?”
“Latte, please.”
By the time I return to the table with two lattes, she’s listening in to a conversation on the next table. As I sit, she raises a finger to her lips, making it look as though she is pausing for comment but rolling her eyes back at the group behind….
The woman speaking is dressed entirely in black and has made up her face to resemble one of the flightier heroines from a 1970’s vampire movie. The attempt would be more successful were she to drop about forty pounds. The pale skin and dark lowlights to her cheekbones, intended I think to look ghostly and otherworldly, instead, wobble as she speaks.
Never trust a fat vampire….
“…. Yes, but it’s an oxymoron isn’t it… a feminist who claims to support the rights of minorities but then, by their actions, goes on to undermine the very cause she….”
“… or he….” Interrupts one of her companions: a geek with studs all up the side of one ear and who seems to be wearing eye-makeup.
“…. or he, supposedly empathises with.” Vampire woman pauses to draw breath, then ploughs on again. “In avoiding the irony of dissecting a complex problem to over-simplified solutions, the individual distorts the ideological construct of feminism to the point that….”
Wtf?
I speak behind my hand. “You enjoy listening to that pseudo-intellectual crap?”
Mitch chuckles. It’s a low, throaty sound quite unlike the giggling you get from so many females. “Well put. And actually, yes, I do. It entertains me.”
“What were they talking about?”
“They were discussing the rights of women with regards to sex. Both sides were claiming to be on the side of the angels, but one said that women shouldn’t have to have sex at all and the other was saying they were entitled to enjoy it.”
“And where do you stand on that?”
She shrugs. “I didn’t make the world, Larry. I just try to live in it.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” I snort, then laugh, but the laugh is bitter and I drown it in the coffee.
She’s looking at me. It’s an odd expression. Head tilted, a touch of something at the eyes….
“What? What is it?”
“You know, you’re a good-looking man, or you would be if you smiled a bit more.”
“What’s to smile about?”
“Well, I’d hope while you’re with me that I give you something to smile about.”
You do….
I don’t want any more of the coffee. Something is welling up inside me. My pulse is racing and there’s not enough air.
“Larry, are you alright?”
Am I?
I want to run….
“Larry?”
“Got a headache coming on, that’s all.”
Mitch frowns then glances at her watch. “I should be going. It’s been nice running into you like this.”
Something like panic races through me. My chest tightens. “Can I walk you home?”
Her lips part and she slow-blinks. “Um….”
“I could carry your bag for you. Don’t want you breaking a fingernail under the weight of all those books.”
And she bursts out laughing. “Alright, you can walk me home.”
Yes!

*****

At the door, she hovers, then, “Would you like another coffee?” Then, brow cocked, “And I do mean coffee. A girl has to take a day off sometimes.”
“I promise to be a perfect gentleman. And yes, I would very much like coffee.”
She eyes me then, “I believe you.” She turns the key and clicks the door open. “Come on in.”
I heft the bag of books. “Where do you want these?”
“Just on the table there.”
The apartment is small but perfectly kept; a single living room with doors off. “Somehow, I didn’t have you in a place like this. What with the designer clothes and all.”
She pulls a little moue. “I know it’s not great, but I bought a place I could afford and I’m saving up for something better. I’ve cleaned it up quite a bit. I’m working my way through, replacing windows…. redecorating.” She waves me to a chair. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the coffee.”
She clatters around in the kitchen, but I don’t sit, instead roving the small space. There’s not much furniture, but she has bookshelves a-plenty….
Michael Critchton, ‘Travels’….
Paul Theroux, ‘The Old Patagonian Express’….
‘A Year in Provence’….
‘Around the World in Eighty Days’….
‘A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush’….
“I detect a bit of a trend in your reading,” I comment as Mitch emerges with two coffee mugs.
She dimples. “When I was a little girl, I always wanted to travel, to have adventures.”
“So, have you travelled? Where have you been?”
She hunches. “Nowhere really. I had a week on one of those club tours once, but it wasn’t much fun, travelling by myself. All the others in the party just wanted to get drunk and screw….”
Busman’s holiday….
“What’s stopping you from travelling more?”
“A girl has to earn a living, pay the bills.”
“You earn well. I’d have thought….”
“As I said, I’m saving up to buy a bigger place and….” She looks rueful…. “…. you might be surprised at some of my expenses. By the time I’ve paid for manicures and pedicures and skin treatments and hair salons, there’s not a lot left.”
“Mitch, you’re already beautiful. Why do you need that lot?”
“My body is my living. I have to look after it.” She seems to shake away her mood. “Do you travel at all?”
“All the time. It’s part of my work.”
Her eyes catch fire. “Really? Where do you go?”
“You name it, I’ve pretty much been there. Africa, South America, the Middle East, the Far East….”
“It sounds amazing.”
“I suppose, but it’s like all jobs. It sounds more glamorous than it really is. And you can get tired of living out of a suitcase.”
“So, where’s home?”
“Wherever my suitcase is I suppose.”
Bookcases aside, the room is basic. It faces north, and the light is poor. Old walls, rough and cracked in places, are painted plain cream and personalised with bright prints and hangings.
But the centrepiece is over the fireplace; taking up all of the chimney breast, a gigantic image of a butterfly on a rose, painted directly onto the cracked plaster. It’s skilfully done, the colours deep and lustrous. There’s something odd about the perspective though. It’s accurate but…. I can’t put my finger on it. I stand back, viewing from a different angle, but the oddness remains.
Oddness aside, the painting is very unusual and quite beautiful. “This came with the apartment?”
Mitch stands by me, looking up at the mural. “No, I painted it myself.”
“You did? It’s very good.” I move in closer again, examining the brushwork. “You have a fine talent, Mitch.”
“I’m glad you like it.” She falls silent for a moment then, “But it’s not really meant to be viewed like this.”
“How then?”
She nods me to the window. “Draw the curtains.” As I do so, she moves around the room, lighting candles. Then she places a couple on the mantle under the mural.
The candlelight flickers and moves, shifting shade and shadows, catching the cracks and unevenesses of the broken plasterwork. And under the dancing light, the butterfly comes to life, its wings moving, rising and falling in the way they do when sunbathing.
How the hell…?
“That’s…. extraordinary…. What gave you the idea?”
Her eyes shift to mine. “The apartment was so dismal, but it was all I could afford at the time. Then, I was reading an article about Neolithic cave paintings in France. It said the paintings were made to be viewed in firelight…” Her fingers wriggle, imitating flames. “…. so, the animals appeared to move. You can see films of it sometimes, horses that seem to move, bison running. It’s all a trick of the light but it’s very evocative.”
“It’s beautiful, Mitch, and very cleverly done…. Why a butterfly?”
“They….” She stares at nothing…. “They have a personal significance for me.”

*****

She stands by the door, holding it open. “Night, Larry.”
“Night, Mitch.” As I step past her, I hesitate then, giving her every chance to move away, I lean in to kiss her on the cheek.
I want….
I want….
“Night, Mitch,” I repeat. As I walk down the long hall, I look back to see her watching me, one hand touching her cheek where I kissed her.
Stepping out into the night, I laugh at the irony of it.
It’s two am in the morning and I’m leaving the home of a prostitute having given her no more than a kiss and shared no more than coffee and conversation.
I feel wonderful.

*****

Don’t push it….
Don’t weird her out….
I head for the hotel, check out the bar, and she’s there. Her newspaper on the bar, she sits reading, pen in hand, tapping at the paper.
“Weighing up the stocks?”
She startles and looks up, then smiles. “Actually no. I was just doing the crossword, but I’m stuck.”
“What’s the clue?”
“Eleven letters. The hand of freedom. M, something, n and eight somethings.”
“Can I get you something, sir?”
“Gin and tonic, and whatever Mitch is drinking…. Manumission.”
She frowns. “What?”
“The hand of freedom. Manumission.”

*****

It’s so good.
I lie back in sweat-soaked sheets, my chest heaving, gasping for breath.
“Why are you doing this?”
An eyebrow arches. “Because you’re paying me.”
Ain’t that the truth….
“Your honesty is refreshing.”
Mitch sits very straight. “Some guys want the fantasy. I don’t think you’re one of them.”
“You’re right. But I didn’t mean that. I meant this. Why are you a hooker? With your looks, you could take your pick. You could easily find a rich husband.”
She snorts. “And tie myself to some man? Someone who thinks he owns me? Who thinks that I’m his property and he can rule my life? No….” Her eyes are like agates. “No man is going to be my Master….”
What’s going on here?
Who’s tried to control you?
Some pimp?
She shivers. “Sorry, I went a bit OTT there didn’t I…. Anyway, what about you? The women in your life?”
“There aren’t any women in my life. I’m single. Always have been.”
“You must have a mother.”
Crap….
“My mother left. I don’t remember her.”
Mitch’s face twists. Something about the reaction isn’t…. normal…. “Do you know why she left?” she asks.
“My father was pretty free with his fists. I imagine that accounts for it.”
Her voice falls to a whisper. “But she left you behind?”
I don’t reply.
Her head bows. “What kind of woman leaves her own child behind?”
“A woman who’s terrified of the man she’s with?”
Her chin lifting. “I would never do that, no matter how scared I was.” Her eyes spark then soften. “What about your father? Where is he?”
What do I tell her?
“The day came, he swung his fists once too often.”
“And then what?”
“He discovered that cubs grow into wolves.”
The eyes, glaring, white-rimmed….
…. The face, scarlet, bloated….
…. The fist….
The hand, snatching at the wrist, encircling it, holding it….
…. “You little shit! Who do you think…?”
…. The body weighs in…. Bullying forward….
…. Punches raining in from both sides, beating down.…
…. The knife…
…. Blood….
…. The look of surprise, melting to horror….
The knife handle, protruding from the chest, as though it belonged there….
My chest tightens. Even now, after so long….
Mitch’s face softens. “Sounds rough.”
“It didn’t do me any harm in the end. Taught me how to deal with life.”
She slow-blinks. “Did it?”
“Is that the end of the personal interrogation?” I ask. “Do all your clients get the third degree?”
She chuckles. “No, they don’t. But most of them tell me anyway.” She holds up her hands, her voice turning dramatic. “I’m surrounded by men whose wives don’t understand them. Lawyers, police, judges; all the same; all looking for a good fuck without complications….”
High-class client base….
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. Sometimes they simply have a sham for a marriage. A lot of them are pillars of society, so divorce can’t be considered.” She rubs her lower lip, looking sad. “Sometimes he does genuinely love his wife but all she’s interested in is the kids and society and shopping and he gets bored. He wants to have both sex and something more than pillow talk.”
“So, they come to you for an interesting conversation?”
“Sometimes, yes,” she nods. “So, I keep up to date on the newspapers, what’s going on in the world. Even if I don’t understand it, at least.…”
“At least you have a higher class of ignorance?” I suggest
She laughs then her expression turns serious again. “But since we’re talking about it, why aren’t you married? Or at least with a girlfriend out there? You’re a good-looking guy….” She reaches, ruffling my hair.
“Women leave.”
My tone is sharper than I intended, and she snaps her hand back. “So, they do,” she says, “but you don’t have that problem with me, do you? You pay me, I stay.”
Is that really all it is?
“I’d not thought of it like that.”
“That rather takes the pressure off, doesn’t it?” she says. “While you’re here, you need have no expectations of me, nor I of you. That’s not what this is about.”
Her eyes twinkle as she speaks and something inside me unknots. “It does take the pressure off, yes….”
No expectations…. No disappointments….
“…. I like the relationship I have with you.” I lift her chin with a finger. “There’s something clean about it.”
Her head tilts. “This is a relationship?”
“We’re friends, aren’t we? I enjoy being with you. I’d like to think what I see in you isn’t just the professional putting up a good front.”
She looks at me steadily. “No, it’s not. And you’re right. I do enjoy seeing you.”
For a moment, the ‘pro’ vanishes from behind her eyes and a young woman looks out at me.
Oh my God….
“Do you know how beautiful you are when you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Drop the facade. When it’s just you. Just Mitch. Not the pro finessing her client.”
She frowns, but she doesn’t look unhappy, just puzzled. “Why are you here Larry? What do you want from me?”
“More.”
She laughs. “You’re already here three, four nights a week. It’s costing you a fortune. And you want more?”
“Not more sex. Not more of the pro. More of you.”
Her eyes widen and her lips part.
Do I say this?
The deep breath before the plunge.…
“I want you. I want all of you.”
She goes very still, then, “No-one gets all of me, Larry. A part of me is available for hire. None of me is available for purchase.”
“And what about as a gift?”
Her face freezes, then she cracks into laughter and pats my chest. “Oh, you. You had me going there for a minute.”

*****