It was just as I'd turned right into the top of the road that I'd seen her running across the street for a bus. Well, not so much running as cantering. It took me a second to realize that in all the time I'd known her I'd only ever seen her walk. To anyone else this probably wouldn't be noteworthy but for me it was kind of significant. Why?
Well, if someone's running for a bus it hints that that individual isn't fully in control of their life because they're not as organised as they should be. They can't plan how much time a task will take. They haven't made allowances for unexpected events and they've allowed other (lesser individuals) to delay or thwart them. In short, you lose a bit of dignity when you run for a bus.
I don't think that it's really that important for the majority of us (I regularly run for buses, trains and boats) as we're all human and for want of a better term, shit happens. But but because I'd had her on a pedestal (a pedestal of my own construction) for many years that glowing and perfect image of her cracked just a little in that instance. Just a little.
I need to explain, go back in time a few years...
I've probably known, or rather known of, Gina for about ten years when I often used to see her wandering around town or walking back home. She was probably in her late thirties then and she had straight shoulder length blonde hair. She was slim and normally wore a faded blue denim jacket. It was rare that she would put on a skirt (I have seen her only once in a white summer dress) so jeans or black leggings would be her usual attire for the bottom half of her body along with white sandals on her feet. Facially she had these cold blue-green eyes, a straight nose that reminded me of Hitler's and thin spiteful lips. Her face shape was neither thin nor round and her flesh was permanently bronzed; my guess was that she had her own tanning machine. Now from how I've described her you'd probably think she wasn't attractive or stylish, but she was good looking, not beautiful I grant you, and I fancied her at the time. I hasten to add that I fancied a lot of other women too.
Anyway, a couple of years later our paths crossed when she got a job at a café, I used to frequent a lot when I worked along the seafront. In fact, her daughter (a clone of her) was dating one of the guys who worked there. From the moment I saw her there I vowed to get to know her better. Maybe 'know her' in the biblical sense too. Oh yeah, I probably ought to tell you that I was also in a relationship with Della (a story for another day) who, if I was lucky, I would see about once every two weeks. That said, I remember chatting to her one sunny summer day outside the café whilst I was on a short break with my colleague. Her sleeves were partially rolled up and tantalizing revealing her toned and tanned arms. I also recall wondering at the time what the rest of her body looked like uncovered. I would never know. Anyway, we got to chatting about relationships and she'd told me how when she'd found out her husband had been cheating on her she'd confronted him with it and had ended up punching him so hard in the face she'd broken his nose. She'd then kicked him out of the house and had nothing further to do with him. As she told me how she had broken his nose I had detected more than just the gratification of revenge, I had also seen, or thought I'd seen, a glimmer of something darker flashing across her features. There was something vicious or sadistic just below the surface. Now most normal fellas would run a mile at that but not me because I have a moth-to-flame attraction to that kind of dangerous female. From that moment on I fantasized about her treating me cruelly. In fact, I have composed a couple of blogs in which I totally submit to her whilst she beats, abuses and humiliates me. Of course, the fantasy is highly exciting and incredibly arousing but would the reality match up to it? I don't know.
A couple of weeks later, when she was on a day off, I got talking to her colleague, Joan, and her boss John about her. Joan had counselled me not to get involved with her as "She has massive debts and just uses blokes to get as much as money out of them as she can before dumping them without a second thought. Not only that but she doesn't have a twinge of conscience about taking 'the Social' for as much as she can either. The only reason she doesn't get taken to court is because she's probably shagging the head of Social Services. She's a nasty bit of work. Do not get involved with her. She doesn't give a damn about anyone except herself and her daughter.'
John had then recounted a tale about her too. "Not so long ago a pal of mine took a shine to her and ended up bedding her. A couple of days later she found out where he lived, went around and with great satisfaction told his wife everything. Everything. It caused a lot of problems. She's totally malicious."
As they had told me this, I had become erect. What a bitch. An über Bitch. Nietzsche would have loved her. Probably.
I think the question to ask at this point is: Why my obsession with her?
I have to confess that there's a part of me that admires her for the way she lives her life. She doesn't give a damn for anyone or anything that doesn't have value for her. She sees society for what it really is: a bunch of self-centred, greedy, lusty and deceitful apes who underneath couldn't care less who they trample upon or rip off in their rush to gratify their own (sometimes perverted) desires. She probably sees herself that way too. She lives for the day and couldn't give a toss about the passing of time, the absurdity of existence. Yep, she doesn't give a damn.
I suppose in a fashion by submitting to her I am endorsing her red-in-tooth-and-claw way of life, albeit adapted to the modern world. Nature. Darwin. Survival-of-the-Fittest. Endurance-of-the-Just-Fit-Enough. By surrendering to her I am 'merging' with her. Mixing my genes with superior genes. Or possibly it's about memes. If I'd never got to fuck her.
Or maybe Nature in its dark and twisted way really sought to destroy me, the weak, the worthless. Death, slow and painful death, by über bitch...
I think I've perhaps I've gone off at a tangent.
Anyway, I guess really what I would have liked to see her do was stroll across the road and dare the bus driver to leave her behind. You see, because that first time, in all those years, that I saw her give a damn was the first time I didn't about her...