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Saturday Man

A short story

By Sunshine Spinek-PhelpsPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
2

It was cold outside. I was balancing the pain of simultaneous numbness in my feet from my 3-inch stiletto heels and the shooting reality of my very aggravated plantar fascitis. It was best to stand still with my knees locked, waiting curbside for my Saturday regular.

As a sex worker in a busy city, it wasn’t hard to find a few men to fill my regular time. I make a point to travel out of town, about 20 miles from where I attend law school during the day. No one knows how I pay my tuition, and no one cares. I will graduate debt-free as long as I am cautious, lucky, and follow my rules.

My Saturday client approached in his inconspicuous SUV, opening the door to let me in from the freezing temperatures and dewy mist that had greeted my 2 AM encounter. The heat in his backseat was a welcome enveloping warmth, but I didn’t slide out of my oversize full-length parka just yet. Each client has his preferences, and Saturday man liked to unwrap me like a gift when we reached his upscale downtown loft.

As we pulled up to the valet, the doorman greeted me warmly and helped me out of the sleek black vehicle, and my client held the door for me into the building. His building smelled like an old library, filling my nose with haunted histories. I love this building. He probably keeps an apartment here for this purpose, the purpose of me, and no other reason. His apartment holds no pictures and is dark and cold when we enter every time. He goes to the fireplace upon entering and lights the gas. He could probably afford to keep it burning, but he does this every Saturday. Environmentally aware, or frugal? I wonder.

I make my way to the dining room. Saturday man likes to dine with me before we do the dirty, and that’s fine with me. He is familiar with my rules; no one speaks any personal details that would give either of our true identities away. The truth is, I enjoy Saturday.

After we finish our quiet, flirtatious meal of charcuterie, sweet wine, and fruit, we move to the sitting room. The fireplace illuminates the large overstuffed chairs and expensive rug. I sit down on the carpet, legs stretched out and crossed at the heels, shoes still on. I fall back on my palms, locking my elbows and reclining, stretching and arching my chest outward. My long chestnut hair falls behind me, dancing across the intricate woven design of the massive, expensive mat. I like studying on the floor at home. My carpet is not costly. The warmth from the fire feels nice. I am wearing his favorite black dress, laced together from the mid-thigh bottom to the top of the sweetheart cut middle. He kneels beside me, then balances on his side, using his free hand to pull the loose string at the bottom, carefully and slowly, undoing the weave of the string holding my dress together. His warm breath smells sweet, like strawberries. Our lips meet gently, and our passion is released.

Later, I have dressed in a white button-up fitted collared shirt and black pencil skirt, sitting in the foyer, watching my uber approach on my phone. Saturday man says he has wired my fee into my account as he stands on his balcony in only a towel, surveying the early light stretching over the waking city. He walks toward me and kisses my cheek softly. His smell and warmth leave my knees weak, as always. I genuinely love Saturdays.

He hands me a small box when I stand to leave, not customary of our prior departures. This act is new, unexpected. As he passes me the box, he gives a mischievous grin and a wink, also out of character, which makes me smile, and I let out a surprised laugh. “What is this?” I ask. He grins his perfect grin, and with the sexiest side glance, he replies, “A little something. See you next Saturday.”

I do not open the box right away. I love the feeling of anticipation, but this is also breaking the rules. No unknowns, no wildcards.

I hop into the uber and make small talk with the driver, who drops me off at the train station. After boarding, I take my seat and finally open the little box.

Does it look like a journal? It’s a small black book. It’s worn, and the pages are full of his perfect handwriting. I open the cover and see my name. He’s not supposed to know my name.

“To Laura, my Saturday girl, who I wait patiently for all week long. This journal is all the things I shouldn’t say, but I can’t help myself. Saturday is no longer enough. I know who you are, and I know why you do this. Money isn’t a problem for me, and now it isn’t a problem for you. Would you consider inviting me to be apart of the rest of your week? Month? Year? Forever?- Your Saturday man- or if you accept, Benjamin.”

The rest of the book is full of confessions of love, passionate poems about our affairs, his deepest secrets, desires, collected over our time together. I wipe away my tears; I am overwhelmed with thoughts. Before disembarking the train, I check my account. He wired me 20,000 dollars. I am stunned. Electricity shoots through me as I try to make sense of the number staring back at me from my phone screen. I am left stunned and immobile, sitting back down in my seat. Is this everything I’ve ever wanted? Or the beginning of a disaster?

fiction
2

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