Marty had something of a hard time last week. It started out with her finding out that Sugardaddy actually was nothing more than a sugardaddy. And not a fancy one with a smooth voice and a shiny car, but a short, moped-driving Dominican man who enjoys eating mango, flashing his round belly and being in the company of Marty's body.
I, too, enjoy such simple pleasures, but I have never offered to pay for that last one.
“Adulte? Adulte? What does that even mean?” Marty, afterwards, regressing.
A couple of hours after this - in retrospect, not overly shocking - revelation, Marty spent hours roaming the dark streets of Paris, alone, posting 500 semi-illegal ads. It rained on her, the monotonous finger-work made her thumb bleed (real blood), but she still wasn't cleansed.
“It was cold.” Marty, coming home from roaming, dispirited.
However heart-breaking this story may seem, it has something of a happy ending. Marty now has a real job, as a waitress. And her dear mother and sister spent the weekend in Paris and our home is once again filled with costly sweet stuff. I don’t have to go on about how extremely demanding her job really is or how she, because of her job, couldn’t spend very much time with her family. No one likes a tragedy.
Meanwhile, I enjoy my ice cream occupation. And the sunshine. And the fact that I soon will get my pay cheque. An actual pay cheque. It’ll be awesome.
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1 comment:
It's sad that Sugardaddy had to turn out to be such a cliché.
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