I am not that kind of person, though. All the money in the world won’t take away who I truly am. It could be fun to pretend though, even if it’s just for a night.
“I will come for you at seven,” she says. “Does the dama need any special preparations?”
“I don’t know, do I?” I ask. I figure as long as I’m showered and do something with my hair, I’m about as good as I’m going to get. He’s seen me in much worse condition, like when he used to walk me home from the bakery and I was all covered in flour, smelling like a Kolachke and drenched in sweat. Maybe his tastes have changed in the time we’ve been apart.
“Let me know. I can send someone for supplies.” She slips a brown bag stuffed with tissue paper into my hand and shuts the door behind her and my mind starts racing, thinking about all the women he’s probably been with over the years. He’s rich and gorgeous. He could have his pick at nearly anyone from celebrities to royalty. I fall in neither of those categories unless Poland’s Most Wanted Criminal counts as fame. He’s going to be sorely disappointed when he finds out I’m still the lowly dull peasant he knew from high school.
All this money his parents gave me couldn’t buy me grace or class.
I whistle as I tear the tissue paper out of the bag and feel the silk dress inside.
It’s navy blue and comes all the way down to the floor, an elegant slit up the side. It’s very tasteful and plain, and even though the neckline comes up high, I can’t help but feel sexy just touching it. I fall down on the bed and start laughing when I pull the bright red lingerie out of the bag.
He’s still the boy I fell for all those years ago.
I read the note, scrawled in his choppy handwriting. “I never had a chance to take you to Studniowka. Let’s try this again.”
It’s a tradition in Poland for women to wear bright red under their dresses to surprise their dates afterwards. Apparently, he wasn’t too concerned about the surprise factor.
I hold up the sheer lacy panties up to the light, marveling at the intricate flowers cut out in the fabric. They’re definitely racier than the cotton polka dot boy shorts I have in about every color. I guess I probably should’ve told Maria I needed some supplies, namely a waxing kit and some double sided tape to hold the matching strapless bra up.
He wants me sexy for him.
I want to give it to him.
“Noooooooo,” I whisper. “You’re not doing this to yourself, and you’re not doing this to him.”
I set the lingerie down and toss a pillow over my head. That’s how it’s always been with him. As much as I want to push him away and do my own thing, he always finds a way to suck me back in. He always tries to bribe me. I can’t let nostalgia cloud my mission.
I can’t forget about who he is.
More importantly, I can’t let him forget who I am.
9
Serafin:
I wait in my study, watching on my surveillance camera as she walks down the steps behind Maria.
It looks like she’s floating, her hair tucked in a bun high up on her head, almost like a halo. My perfect angel. The dress fits her perfectly, managing to somehow cover every sacred inch of her flesh but accentuate her curves at the same time. I get hard thinking about what she has on underneath there.
I laugh at the clunky combat boots on her feet, and I probably should’ve had a pair of shoes for her, but I like her this way. It’s who she’s always been, perfect with a hint of rebellion. Kept, but untamed. I’m not even hungry for the five course meal I picked out for us. The only thing I want to taste is her lips, her flesh, her pussy. I’ve been craving her since the day I met her, and now, after all these years I’m completely starved.
I roll up the sleeves on my black button down and take a glance in the mirror. She hasn’t said anything about my eye yet, but maybe she’s just being polite. My parents spent a ton of money on plastic surgery trying to preserve my looks after the attack, but every day of my life since then, I’ve lived with the scars. Learning to see with one fake eye was difficult, but not impossible. It cost a fortune ensuring my new eye looks and moves just like my old one, but I can’t help but feel like a disfigured freak every time I look at myself.
She still hasn’t seen the mangled flesh of my ankle and calf, she still doesn’t know I only have seven toes. Even with dim lights and a couple glasses of wine, it’s still clear as day I’m damaged.
Maybe that’s why she left and never looked back. Nobody had any faith that I’d be able to pull through the attack, especially not without a lot of long term damage.
Maybe she left because she was afraid that something bad was going to happen to her, too. This life isn’t for everyone, and if I can’t even keep myself safe, how could she expect me to protect her?
Hypotheticals aren’t what I’m after anymore. I’ve had twelve long years to play out every maybe that popped into my mind. Tonight, I want answers.
I watch as she nervously wanders through the dining room, her brow furrowing as she runs her fingers over the pictures of my late father and mother
