Back to The Fish Bowl

After some years of experience, I had learned what NOT to expect from the Banker. Nevertheless, my ego always suffered a bit. So when I was back at The Fish Bowl, I was hungry like the wolf. Hungry for attention, and for some vigorous demonstration of appreciation, if you understand what I mean. My colleagues at the bar didn’t ask many questions, but they could easily see how nervous I was. They also noticed my new diamond earrings and understood that my “vacation” in Switzerland had been crowned by success.

To ease my restlessness, I played hard with my customers that night. Some of them seemed decent enough to deserve a special service in one of the hotel rooms, but I preferred to keep flirting with more than one, just to refuel my self-esteem. It  helped marvellously: someone  got a bit too bold, tried to slide a hand between my thighs, or got too close for comfort to my breasts. But they also ordered too many drinks to become a real nuisance. I enjoyed the sense of power, they would have followed me immediately, if only I wished them to do so...

Then, the Stranger arrived. He looked a bit lost, he scanned the room as if he was looking for someone.  He saw me, and saw the fat guy who was trying to convince me to test his unspeakable manhood. The Stranger sat at the opposite end of the counter,  ordered a drink and didn’t look in my direction for a while. He seemed absorbed into his tumbler, he sipped slowly, he played with the ice, and kept his eyes low.

The fat guy was too drunk to be funny anymore. I whispered in his ear, suggesting that we could go upstairs to his room – why don’t you go first? I follow you in a while. He sprang from his stool and strode out of the bar, talking nonsense to himself. I knew the type, he would be asleep the second  he touched the bed. Pathetic idiot.

So I walked to the Stranger, and sat next to him. At first, he didn’t even look at me. But I was sure he knew I came to talk with him – my perfume was strong enough to make him aware of me. In fact, he slowly turned and smiled. A nervous smile, as if he was not sure I had recognised him. A week can be an awfully long time for a stool girl. We started chatting easily, as if my absence in the previous week had not mattered. He didn’t ask questions, made some nice remarks about my dress, as he usually did. We spoke about politics, about books, about films and actors, that night. Seriously, but we laughed a lot too. We seemed to share the same sense of humour. We drank a little, I also did, although I resent too much alcohol – that’s the irony of my job. We were pleasantly tipsy and enjoyed immensely our conversation. Time passed by and the Stranger said he had to go to sleep. He looked in my eyes for a long moment – I tried to understand what he really wished to do. Then, for the first time, he touched me. He put his hand on my wrist – he caressed it for just a second. He stood, said good night and left.