Visa
The story I churned out earlier this week, “Me. Here. Now.”, is not the first appearance of a character named Visa in my writings. Well, it is the first FULL appearance, but I’ve been toying with the Visa part for at least five years now. I first wrote something back in 1998, just a couple sentences that just said her name, told of the father joke and that it was probably just a mis-type or mis-write. Then in June of this year I dug it up and started writing what follows. Now, I don’t plan on using this full scene anywhere, not since I’ve used Visa already (though, really, what’s stopping me?) but I may use the rest of it. It’s not my best work, no, but with a little cleaning up it might be interesting. Who knows.
Her name was Visa.
The origin is lost to history. Her father would joke that it was because that’s what paid for her birth. Her mother said it probably came from her during the drug and shock induced aftermath or giving birth. Visa assumed that someone merely mistyped Lisa on her birth certificate.
She told me this as she removed her shirt in a hotel room that cost almost as much as hour as she did.
The room was small. Not what one would call quaint. It consisted of a bed and a lot watt lamp, a window that gave a view to the building next door and stained walls shedding their wallpaper.
She reached behind her back as her eyes stared blankly at the floor, habit taking over. This was the path she took every time she did this. First the shirt. Then the bra.
I told her that it wasn’t necessary and she stopped, looked up and into my eyes, her blank stare unreadable as I hoped she would question me as to why. She shrugged and her hands came back from behind her and went for her jeans.
I told her that that wasn’t necessary either and then I got the questioning glance. I told her I was a cliché, the man who you always hear about spending money to fill his lonely life with some sort of companionship that did not consist of emotionless sex. I just wanted to look at her, dressed. I wanted to hear her talk. I wanted to hear a voice confide in me in ways that had not been done since I lost you.
I paid good money for this sense of association. The free kind is so hard to come by.
I told her she could put her shirt back on if she liked but she did not, merely keeping her eyes locked into mine. A visible nervousness crept into her. I had expected it but I was still disheartened by its presence. I’m sorry, I said, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.
Why must they be so afraid of the ones who only want to talk? Why are they the ones to watch out for? The ones feared to be murderers or psychos? The ones thought to be unstable and violent? The ones that do not want to be dominated, that do not want to dominate, the ones that do not seek to nail or impale or seek any perverse sexual pleasure from these women. Why must they be feared?
I did not ask her that. Such a rant would not have helped.
Visa took a deep breath, her chest rising and then falling with the air in her lungs.
Yeah, yeah, needs work, but I thought I’d share just the same.
