Still Made Of Dirt.

"Would you like a drink while you wait?" She asked, appearing out of nowhere. 

I looked up expecting to see a young woman with a bright smile and a little yellow pencil.  Instead, there she was, in her pretty green dress; her eyebrows shaped in a way that made her look like she was constantly surprised. 

It took me a moment to remember where I was. Of late, I have such a tendency to wander away in my thoughts. So far away that even when I am called back, it takes a while for me to get there. 

"I'll have a glass of wine," I told her without thinking about it too much.

I watched her walk back to the bar and pour the wine. She was sloppy. Too sloppy to be working in a place as shiny and clean as that one. She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one saw her clean the rim of the glass with her sleeve after she accidentally poured onto it. It made me laugh but not outrightly. I don't remember the last time I laughed in action and not in words. The act of laughing seems physically exhausting. 

"Enjoy your drink," she said putting the glass in front of me. 

She smiled before she turned around to walk away. It was wooden. My smile would be wooden too if I had to smile at hundreds of people every day.

I took a sip of the wine while my eyes were still planted on her shoulders. She had dainty shoulders, I like that, and I would have continued to study them if the wine hadn't brought me back to myself. I hate the taste of alcohol but not as much as I hate the smell of alcohol. It makes me want to curl up and vomit. 

But worse than that. 

It takes me back to that tiny little hovel I grew up in. Every night my father would come home, somehow jovial despite the fact that we couldn't even afford our hovel, and I'd pretend to be asleep on the floor because I didn't want to talk to him. He'd lean over and kiss my cheek and the smell of his breath would make me want to vomit. No man worth anything should smell like that. I vowed, every single night back then that he would be the last man who smelled like that to ever touch me. 

That's all I thought about all night as heard him on the other side of the flimsy screen we used to separate the one room house into two, as he said disgusting things to my mother. Telling her how much he wanted her flesh and how beautiful she was. She wasn't beautiful and though she never smelled of alcohol she always smelled of sweat on an unbathed person. She had these broad shoulders and you couldn't see her collarbone at all. She loved the things my father did to her though. Disgusting things like putting his mouth down at her pussy. Sucking her breasts. Filthy professions of love. When I was younger I couldn't help but watch. I could see enough to know what was happening but not enough that I couldn't face them in the morning. As I grew older I found it more and more distasteful. I couldn't imagine why any woman would want to fuck my father. Least of all like that. In that house. On that tiny little bed that rattled and screeched against the floor when it moved. Rocking slowly. It often lulled me to sleep. 

"Can I get your another drink?" I heard her say in the distance. 

I must have been a little dazed because I saw her expression change from wooden to slightly concerned as I looked up towards her.  

And then down at my glass. 

I hadn't realized that I'd finished my drink. I couldn't remember drinking any of it. I could smell it on my breath though. It made me want to wash out my mouth. 

"Yes, please," I told her, smiling. 

I wondered if she could tell my smile was wooden too. 

I was looking through my bag for a mint when she brought me my drink. I could smell the taste of my mouth and it was unbearable. I needed to change it but all I could find in my bag was cinnamon flavoured gum. It didn't matter though, I needed my mouth to stop tasting like my father, and while I'm not a big fan of cinnamon flavoured gum, I do like cinnamon. It was one of the few things we had in our house when I was growing up that I actually liked. Cinnamon, basil and my mother's exquisitely ornate engagement ring. I hated seeing it on her finger though. It barely fit her. It always felt so wrong that she had it. That my father could ever afford to buy that beautiful a piece of jewelry. It was a white but darkened metal, criss-crossed layers and dozens of little diamonds sprinkled through it. I stole the ring when I ran away from home. I figured I could sell it and use that money to start a life for myself. I took it to a jeweller hoping to soon have enough money to eat at one of those fancy restaurants across the bridge from where we lived but the jeweller laughed in my face. Turned out, it was paste. Worth virtually nothing. 

A part of me was relieved, I think, because I immediately slipped the ring on my finger. It felt right. Instead I offered the jeweller a handjob if he took me to dinner in one of those restaurants and bought me a pretty dress. I figured, one way or another, I had to find a way to make it in the world. On my own. 

As I finished my second glass of wine I gestured to the pretty lady to bring me another. The gum and the wine together tasted strange but it wasn't​ as disgusting anymore. I didn't want to cleanse the inside of my mouth. I tapped the ring on my finger against the table as she filled up the glass. 

"That's a beautiful ring," she remarked. 

I thanked her and looked down at the ring. It was my engagement ring. It looked exactly like my mother's but it was made of white gold and diamonds. My husband bought it for me after I told him the story about the ring. I told him I loved it but secretly I missed my old ring. Sometimes when I was alone and away, I would wear it to business meetings. It fit better. Somehow. 

I was halfway through my third glass of wine when I finally saw him walk into the restaurant and towards me. 

"You're late," I said as soon as he sat down. 

"Then you wait," he said pinching my wrist as he cupped my hand. 

He was the only man I've met who understood how to touch me. The only man whose touch wasn't disgusting. 

"You're drinking?" He asked pulling away and looking at me in surprise. 

"I guess I'm feeling nostalgic," I said. 

"If you're feeling nostalgic, we can always go back to your old home," he said reaching over to stroke my chin, "I'll fuck you like a cheap little slut on that cheap little bed." 

I could feel the alcohol coursing through my veins and settling in my throat. 

"I don't want to go there," I told him loudly, "It's disgusting." 

"Then why did you buy it?" He asked gesturing to the pretty lady to bring him the cheque. 

I sat there waiting for him to settle up and toying with the ring on my finger. 

"Come," he said standing up, "Let's take you home." 

"I don't want to go," I said, and I think somewhere inside, I really truly did not want to go. 

"We're going," he said holding my wrist, "Get up now." 

"Why are you doing this?" I asked him my speech slurring into the accent I brought with me from the hovel.

"Because you're dirt, sweetheart," he said pulling me close to him, "And you won't be at home until you're back where you belong."

"Fancy dirt," I corrected him, "Really nice smelling and expensive dirt." 

"Still dirt," he said laughing. 

He was right. 

No matter what I do, I'll still be made of dirt.