Her name was Mia, Mia Kulpa. And believe me, if being ravishing was a capital offense, a jury would retire, deliberate for 17 seconds, and find her guilty on all counts. Some people said she was bad. I thought she was good…real good.
I first met Mia that balmy spring day when she floated into my office on the 48th floor of the Colossally Huge Building wearing a clingy white linen sundress and a killer smile. She paused for a brief second in front of me, fixed her eyes on mine, and then went directly to the big picture window overlooking the great city and stood there silhouetted in the streaming sunlight. “Nice view” she said. I thought so too. She turned to me, “I’ve got a case that needs a private dick, and you come highly recommended” the words like velvet caressing my cheek. “I do hope they’re correct in their assessment.” There was a long silence;
I was working on the first nine words of the second thing she’d ever said to me. “Cat got your tongue Mr. Jones?” she said playfully, and turned back to look at the city again. More silence; I was still working on those nine words, but now I felt slightly feverish. “Mr. Jones? Mr. Jones?” Somewhere far off the sound of her dulcet voice…it came like honey flowing slowly from a Maple…framed by the first rays of sunlight…on a glorious new morning…when the dew on the meadow was young, and sweet, and fresh…that magical moment when time hangs suspended betwee – I snapped myself out of my trance by slamming my head into my desk. I hoped she hadn’t noticed. But of course she had. Like most of her species she noticed everything.
She turned, and wafted towards me, her movements almost feral. “Let me help you with that blood” she said, taking a dainty lace hankie out of her little British tan clutch and gently dabbing my forehead. “Thanks, I’m good” I said. “I hope so” she breathed. I wanted to eat her breath. Why did every syllable out of her luscious cherry red lips sound like a promise from Shangri-La …a tongue kiss from Venus, delivered along with a choir of harps softly playing cascading arpeggios…while hovering seraphim blessed all from overhead, their wings whispering gently…as pure white swans placidly glided by on an azu – “Mr. Jones, I have a case that desperately needs a man…a real man.” Great Zeus help me…my mind was boarding an outbound train without a seat – again. I struggled to regain my equilibrium…My fever was rising…I hoped she hadn’t noticed me taking leave of whatever senses I still possessed. “Mr. Jones,” she slapped me…
She had noticed.
“Okay, I’m with you” I said. “I’m with you, and I know I’ll never leave you…I think I’m in love with you…no – I know I’m in love with you…I want to have your babies…I’m yours for a song…for a song title…I’ll slay dragons for you…I’ll remember things…I’ll pick up after myself…I’ll put the seat down”…was I babbling? Under these circumstances? I don’t think so. “But Mr. Jones, you don’t even know me” she purred, smiling that smile that all men know, and wise men fear and are rendered hopelessly powerless by. “You don’t even know my name,” she sang, and turned away to silently pad back to the window. And here I have to say that, although I could swear to the stuff about the seraphim, I really don’t believe in a heaven, but again – that exquisite silhouette.
As she looked out over the city’s mid-day hurly-burly, I was swept up by an overwhelming desire, an irresistible invitation compelling me to know all her secret places…and with all my senses now completely undone by her relentless beauty, her all-encompassing essentialness, the heady perfume that emanated from her very innermost being, the sheer onslaught of her unequivocal femaleness…the one hundred and three temperature…she asked the dreaded question… the question that fells even the strongest sequoia of a man…she asked the one question that no man can avoid or evade…the question for which only one answer, and one answer alone, will suffice…the question whose answer either opens the portals of paradise, or closes them to you forever…the question whose one correct answer unlocks all the eternal mysteries of the universe beyond all infinity…She asked…
“What color are my eyes?”
Weak with fever, I summoned all my remaining strength, all my remaining senses, and somehow…some way…from some hitherto unknown reservoir of as yet untapped consciousness, I managed to gasp, “Your eyes…your beautiful…hypnotic…astonishing eyes…the eyes I will never forget, the eyes I’ve but only briefly gazed into, and the eyes I long to look into for the rest of my days…the eyes that have so totally besotted me to my very marrow…are green.” She turned to me, that sultry smile slowly, almost imperceptibly widening “Your eyes are a bewitching green tinged with flecks of the palest yellow in the iris. Cats-eyes… I – love – cats.” And I fell back in my desk chair…exhausted and exhilarated all at once.
We were married at City Hall the next day. That was twenty-six years ago this Sunday. We leave for San Sebastian, Spain this Friday to celebrate. And wouldn’t you know it, she’s as crazy as I am about grilled octopus and a good chilled Albarino. Go know. Oh yeah – the case? The case she came to see me about? There was no case. Well…there was a case, but not that one anyway. She’d made the whole thing up. She confessed to me while we were on our honeymoon in San Sebastian that she’d read an article about me which intrigued her, and she’d been tailing me for a week dressed as an Arab woman. That explained why I kept getting the feeling that I was being watched by someone in a burka. That’s how bad she was. But like I said, she’s good to me… real good.
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