Pumpking

issue 21

I retreated to the bed and flopped on it. As apologies went, it sure was one hell of a statement. Or was it something more? Was this a subtle poke, saying these were the sorts of things that he would buy a whore? Was I reading too much into that?

Who had he been married to? Had she been like Miss Sims? The perfect little barbie-doll. It was unfair of me to think that about her, but she really was the ideal looking template of what men were supposed to want. I wasn’t exactly the most ungainly of figures, but Miss Sims was really too perfect next to someone like me. I felt like my feet were too big, my arms too fat, my breasts too small. I was too tall standing next to her. She should have been wearing this dress; not me. It was clear that she was better suited, and more adjusted to his personality.

That’s what I wasn’t thinking about. This was a date dress. I couldn’t avoid it. You wore this to a fancy date at a fancy French restaurant.

“Oh, god,” Was he asking me out on a date? Ever since we’d first met he’d invited me to have a long conversation over good food. I buried my head in the pillows on the bed, trying to find my way to China.

Was I reading into the actions of an eccentric too much- were the bloodstains somehow not? Why did he need my help? What was Combustion? Who had he confused me for in the kitchen this morning? Was he married? God, was he married to Miss Sims?—and why did he need outside eyes?

I groaned into the pillow and rolled so I could breathe in. there was only one way that I was going to have any of my questions answered- whether I liked the answers or not. And that meant I had to wear a dress so beautiful it was a crime to disturb the folds, put on expensive jewellery and go to dinner with a lunatic who had no sense of tact, personal boundaries or overwhelming arrogance.

I suppose there were worse fates.