SIMPLE ELEGANCE

It was irony that was playing itself out that night, as she sat in her spacious living room, watching her then favourite comedy, popularly known as the ‘2 Broke Girls’. On her lap lay her best friend, arguably, whom she had named ‘Tom’, a large feline with whom she spent most of her time together. She held a nail file in her one hand, as she dexterously manicured her already attractive nails. Her legs were dipped in a tub of balmy water, coupled with strawberry fragrance, with hints of rose and jasmine shower gel, her legs immersed until slightly above her ankles. Now this was a typical Friday for her, nothing else could beat this, not even attempts to get her to go out for the night would make her think otherwise, the phone calls, the name calling… She had been told she was growing old, she didn’t mind it if it were the case. She loved it indoors, her bottle of whisky, Bourbon, and her favourite comedy was all she needed.

Talking about going out, well, she didn’t really hate it. No, not abhorrence this, just avoidance, and a tinge of despise. What she despised most in fact, was the crowd that always occasioned the night clubs. Immaturity at its best, childishness at its worst, or so she always thought. She never got the idea of what these little kurwas really enjoyed about rubbing their derrieres on random men’s crotches on the dance floors. Or blowing sheesha, or whatever they called it, billowing out regular undulating smoke as if they were human trains. She never got what the hullabaloo about Friday’s was all about. If anything, the only thing she liked about her Friday’s was the thought of a long rest, after a long week of work. The only person who was capable of interrupting her otherwise personal Fridays, or weekends, was Jane, her best friend, (forget the feline) whom she’d visit in the countryside, for the change of environment.

She poured some more whisky in her glass. She was a slow drinker, but never really eschewed heavy drinking. The apartment just contiguous from hers was booming loud music, and she figured out she was drunk enough to go and claim for some civilisation. She paused her DVD Player, and walked intently towards her neighbour’s door. A young couple had just moved in, and it seems they were having a party with a couple of friends. She expressed her concerns about the loud music, before walking back to her house, somewhat sure that the young guy who had opened the neighbour’s door had been left staring, checking out her ‘shimmering’ tooshie, like one Biko Zulu would love to describe it.

You couldn’t really blame the poor guy. He was certainly not the only guy ever bombarded by the elegance of this lovely lady. Some kind of elegance that was simple. Yes, simple elegance. The kind of elegance you wouldn’t relate with, unless you came across it. The kind that is not imposed, not acquired, neither assimilated. The kind of elegance that did not come with the money. Simple. God ordained. She was born with it. It was in her beauty and in her brains. Her beauty was astounding, her character shattering. She was like a contemporary version of Cleopatra, a reincarnation of a goddess, with all the assets and aspects to back her claim. Yet, just nothing much, simple, elegance.

So she walked, back to her crib, her tooshie, shimmering, as she strode across her marble floor. She walked straight to her fridge to get more ice cubes for her drink, and she was just about to sit and continue watching her comedy before her phone rang;

“Hey Aisha?” the caller bellowed.

“I’m fine Pat; I was expecting your call.” She lied.

Then she figured out Pat had nothing really important to say. Just his normal endless talk, so she stayed there, answering absent mindedly, until he was done and she were glad to end the call.

Pat was this guy she was ‘seeing’. Seeing being totally different than being in a relationship. Say, he was still yet to be fully certified within her context of Mr. Right. He was a nice guy though, fun to chill with, with a great sense of humour. Though she really didn’t always stomach humour, especially raw humour, but somehow, his she could bear.

She couldn’t help but think about all the pressure she was receiving from her mom to get married. She had introduced Pat to her mom, and regretted it as soon as she had done it. Deep down, she didn’t feel like he was the guy she would love to spend the rest of her life with. She was in no hurry to settle down anyway, she was enjoying her life, and no man was worth worrying about, or at least she hadn’t met him yet.

She was aroused from her deep thoughts, by yet another call from Pat’s phone…

She raced down the street, in her Subaru Forester, blue and pink interior and leather seats. She wasn’t sure why she was the one who had been called by whoever that stranger on Pat’s phone was. Was it because Pat had said she was his girlfriend? Or was it because Pat had directed the call to the only doctor who he knew was nearby? Still, she had to go, and check up on him. Her own dad had died in a car accident, and she felt she had to ensure Pat was out of danger.

From a distance she spotted what was certainly the scene of accident, a couple of cars parked along the road, and a pedestrian lying on the ground visibly hurt. She jumped off her car just a few meters away from the scene, and ran towards Pat, who was lying on a pool of blood.

The vagary that came soon after, before she could even figure out that this was a mere prank, Pat smiled, sheepishly, before reaching out for a ring somewhere in his pockets. Down he went, on one knee, looking into her eyes and wiping the paint from his brow, and uttered those words. He looked at her, anticipating, waiting for her to answer, but she was deluded. She just stared back, plainly, as if in shock. Or maybe not shock, maybe just that, being plain. Yet Pat was surrounded by a couple of his friends, looking inebriated, somehow, and one of them held a bottle of chardonnay, in anticipation for celebration.

A loud silence followed. It was the silence of the calamity that ensued. As Aisha mumbled a simple, yet elegant ‘No’, and headed back for her car. She drove off, not any regrets harbored, but she wasn’t going to acquiesce just because someone thought they were so romantic. No, her elegance did not bow down to brusque nonsense. As she drove back home to her Bourbon, comedy and Tom, she made a call to her mom;

“It’s not Pat mom”, she said to her, in simple elegance. She was back in the game, she was go get her Mr. Right, even if Mr. Right left, but she wasn’t taking mediocrity for opportunity.