Originally Posted by
jaccky
In 2006, I frequented a house of iniquity located in East Brisbane. In those days, I had my heart set on a girl called Y_. Every week, for months, I spent an excessive amount of money on her. My drinking was at its zenith then– withdrawals, nightmares. My boozing had the rapidity of an unstoppable freight train going nowhere fast. One day she disappeared. I assumed she went back to Korea? China? She never was forthcoming about such information. I thought about her from time to time. Her spirit would subsequently find its way into my work, and I'd cast my mind back to that nightmarish and directionless era– an awful time of my life, but nonetheless full of colour and romanticism. I still remember the address of that little house. Lately I have been thinking about her more often, due to a regular client of mine that lives near the address. His unit in propinquity to this once charming little illicit brothel imbues me with memories of her, sometimes fond, sometimes desperate. The house is gone now; it's a mass of new development.
The other week I was walking through a certain part of town late at night and I recognised her. She was laden with bags and muttering something. But she still had that same hairstyle– hair combed back, punctuated with a green flower hairclip on the left side of her head. That detail hadn't changed in 16 years. I also recognised that facial expression, which was one that visited me in memory– say at night, when I'd close my eyes for sleep – and which I was, and still am, unaccountably attracted to. It is a look at once brooding and tinged with sardonic humour. Furthermore, this configuration is the result of near sightedness, having the effect of accidental charm. Could it be her, I thought? I did the simple arithmetic, and I was convinced it was. She proceeded to hurry past me with her bags through the doors of a massage parlour. My first thought was that she looked like an old eccentric bag lady.
Weeks later I secured a booking at this establishment, but she obviously wasn't rostered for that day. Moreover, no one there could confirm her whereabouts according to my description.
The other day I had just returned from some customary trip. As usual, I exited the station and proceeded towards home. But instead of taking the conventional route, I turned right, walking towards M_ Street for no reason. Over the road I spotted a massage parlour, and like a moth to light, I crossed the street and proceeded up a flight of stairs, not knowing what lay in store. And she was there. It was Y_.
I paid for half an hour, and was led to a room, where I undressed ... well, you know the drill.
I believe we know each other, I said, many years ago ... you are the spitting image. She didn't recall. Or maybe denied all the evidence recalled to her. The massage progressed. I turned my head so I could view her in a mirror that was embedded in the wall. I knew her hands, the outline of her breasts, and of course, that hair style– I even recognised the existence of a certain freckle that resided on her cheekbone. Every recalled detail of her body slowly entered my mind like rich percolating coffee. Then I turned over. A glimmer of recognition smiled awkwardly down on me. Reunited by chance, I resided in two eras. She's aged. She was once beautiful. Back in those days, providers seemed to conduct themselves with a measure of pride. She still is though, in a sense– in the sense that memory enhances the present, giving it a kind of double life. WIR? It probably wouldn’t be wise to do so. But then again, I’m a fool, as this little story testifies.
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