It was July 12th, 2031. I stood on the Big Temptation’s narrow bridge, the collecting point for the national Meet a Stranger day. A slim woman with curly blonde hair and a floral dress passed by, more or less flying past me, only to stop near the handrails. She seemed to be overjoyed to breathe the same air as our passionate crowd, which filled the void of the sleepy bridge this morning.
While I watched her floating steps, I wondered why such a stunning lady would be here, in the middle of it all: the lazy, the vicious, the lustful mayhem, but then I heard her laugh… One part of my brain froze, surprised by the tone of her voice; another – refused to let go of her sunny and innocent image.
I shook my legs, moving the body below the waist in slow, hopeful circles — warming up my strategy for seducing first-rate females.
“Okay, everyone, gather around. We haven’t got all day, lovebirds!” announced a crisp shout behind my back. The crowd squeezed my torso (against my will) towards the ancient short man in the khaki shorts. I tried to push his excited face far from my clean purple t-shirt, but the stream of people glued us together.
“I’ll get the one with curly hair, a blondinessa.” He said.
“The one with the laugh?”
“What laugh? I have the perfect solution…” The older man chuckled and took out a duct tape from his pocket.
Thousands of insane images began circulating in my mind. The hungry longing of the middle-aged divorced man, who had failed to become the next Bill Gates, and who, unfortunately, still had sex with the cleaning ladies under the stairs of his rented room, maximum twice a year.
“No, you can’t take her. She is mine, my one and only Sobekneferu.” I choked on the last word, realizing the loss.
The old man waved his arms wildly, trying to attract the woman’s attention in a floral dress, but she was too busy performing her non-conversational skills on the guy with a big beard, gold teeth, and luxury sunglasses.
A slightly bemused female pensioner on my right glanced at my convulsive movements. She became mad as a March Hare, attempting to undress.
“A captive audience,” laughed the short man, enjoying his remark.
“Don’t you mind if we rearrange our places? I’d like to move to the left…” I couldn’t finish the phrase because the crowd started to shift closer to the center, cuddling each other in the hope of discovering the dream affair of their life. Hands, open mouths, moans, and cries for help — I glared at the chaos with all fury I had, maneuvering to the lady in a floral dress. To my surprise, she was already flirting with the older man in khaki shorts, who had theatrically presented a thick package of cash from his pocket.
I knew I had to rush — it was now or never.
At that moment, I felt a punch to my left arm. The pain was unbearable. I forced myself to turn and look at the intruder, but another kick sent a shockwave through my spine. I curled up, shouting, “Please, stop!”
A gentle shake woke me up. Two hairy legs, so familiar, surrounded me like a fortress, opening the full view to the curves calling up, guiding my eyes to the hidden grotto of her tight knickers. Despite that, each muscle in my body was aching; I clambered up onto my knees and kissed whoever-it-was with my eyes still shut. Believe it or not, it made me feel half-human again.
“I want you,” said her husky voice.
I opened my eyes, “Ah, it is you.”
Her gaze dropped, and she looked at my slightly trembling legs.
“So, do you want it from behind?” I suggested with a soft sigh.
“Behind what?” Her eyes shone with fury.
“Calm down, calm down. He loves you… He doesn’t know it yet. He had too many distractions today, Sobekneferu and such,” it was again the old man in khaki shorts.
I watched each his move with envy: he was leaving the bridge with my dream lady — a gorgeous blonde in a floral dress.
“Dammit!” I hissed after they left. “What the fuck do you want from me, Martha? It’s Meet a Stranger day, and you are my wife.”
“I’m your EX-wife, Bullet.”
We stood there for a few seconds, looking hatefully at each other.
“Fair enough,” I said, breaking the silence.
When I got back to my apartment, drained from shagging my ex-wife in her rented penthouse, I dropped on the wooden floor of my tiny room, and cried. Between the sobs, I opened a drawer of the antique bedside table: the crumpled picture of Margaret Thatcher smiled at me, sending a promising wave of pleasure. She helped me so many times, saving me from unhealthy decisions and harmful loneliness… but that wasn’t the case today. Without a doubt, I was too exhausted.
“I’m worn out, Margaret. Let’s chat tomorrow.”
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