The Mistress With The Red Lipstick

Trains are very annoying when you’re onboard and everything stops working-the motor, the electricity, the lights- and before you know it, everything is back to normal. Nobody acknowledges that, for a brief few seconds the world went dark. Why would they, when everything is back to the way it should be?  Except sometimes, those first signs of trouble should never be ignored. Now, for example, the train will be delayed, because that minor problem turned out to be a messy technical one. And technical means delay.

I see you. Here you are, with your long chocolate brown locks and dark red lips, holding a Vogue Magazine, waiting. Waiting for the train to get repaired. Waiting to reach your destination. Waiting to step through the station’s doors. Waiting for the taxi that will take you to him.

That smile on your face say’s it all. You’re anxious, nervous but also impatient; you haven’t seen him for some time. You furrow your brow as a frustrating thought nags your mind: does he miss you as much as you’ve missed him? Will he notice the few pounds you shed? You’re secretly hoping he likes you’re new haircut. You have changed your look after having watched In Time on cable one night with him and he wouldn’t stop saying how sexy Amanda Seyfried looked.

Another thought crosses your mind; you wonder what romantic gesture he might have prepared, maybe a delicious home-cooked meal or a lavish gift waiting on the foot of the motel king size bed. But really it shouldn’t matter what he does or doesn’t do. What matters are the precious few moments you spend with him and no gifts in the world can replace them.

Instead you close your eyes and pretend he’s sitting on the chair across from you. His well-built tall physique has been one of the first things you noticed about him. His sturdy shoulders, toned biceps, and sculpted abs hypnotized you that first day you saw him at the local gym.  And how pleased you were to notice that his hands fit perfectly around your 26-inch waist. The sharp edges of his face give him that rugged bad boy look that seem to drive all women mad; and with his dazzling smile fit for a movie star, I can almost understand why you are so enticed by him. When he would look at you with his deep-set urging dark eyes you’d melt like ice cream on a hot summer day. Unsurprisingly, you had more than one occasion to memorize his perfectly shaped soft lips. His upper-lip is fuller than the lower with a well-defined cupid’s-bow. With a discrete smile, you look down and blush at your next thought. Undeniably you can’t wait for his embrace; your excitement can hardly be contained.

I look through the large glass window and noticed we have been moving again for some time; I must have been deeply lost in thought.

Nonetheless, I’m sorry to say that you are silly and pathetic, because you know the truth yet choose to ignore it.  Let’s be honest here, we both know he doesn’t really care about you. He will flash that dazzling smile making you fall oh-so effortlessly under his spell. You are the mesmerized puppet, and he, the mesmerizing puppeteer.

With your fancy cloths, expensive perfume and Barbie doll make-up you hope to impress. All your efforts are unnecessary. You are but a mistress. The perfect mistress I might add. He has done a fine job seducing you. All he needed to do was to ignore you for a couple of weeks. His absence troubled you so much you wondered what you did to deserve this predicament. The wait left you desperate; your days were filled with thoughts of him, and your nights were spent dreaming of him. And suddenly, all was arranged and all was forgiven with the call he gave you this afternoon: “I miss you baby, I need you, come and meet me tonight. I told my wife I’ll be working late at the office”.

Stuck up believing that one day he will leave the mother of his children, you hopped on the first train you found.

I wish you could face reality.

You hum Norah Jones’ song, “I’ve got to see you again”. I pity you. Your blind love for this man has made you disregard the principles you once used to observe so religiously. You diminished that guilt by arguing that all is fair in love and war. Ironically you’ve naively convinced yourself that you have him addicted to your scent and to your touch, that he is wrapped around your little finger.

To him, you are nothing but wide-open flesh. He is the user, and you are the used.  Your sanity is lost at the sound of his name; your heart beats faster at the touch of his skin. And when he whispers those three little words your cheeks flush a vibrant red and you let him take you once more. Now tell me who is wrapped around whose finger?

At last, the train slows down. I take one last look at myself in the window’s reflection while reapplying my Scarlet Red Mac lipstick. I quickly stand up and head for the exit, leaving behind my Vogue magazine.