Sunday, May 02, 2010

Who Is She?

by Bobby

Jenny soon found out her husband Danny had a mistress. She was not sure first, but after a time she was almost sure. One day, when he had rather strange evening phone call she took the chance and, as soon as he left the room, she looked at the last received number in his mobile phone. 

She repeated it several times to remember all the digits and then she put the phone back. The next day she kept thinking about what she had got: one phone number and one name. Jenny was jealous; she wanted to see the woman. For heaven’s sake, who is the person? She thought. Who is the f****** b****, that stormed in her life stealing her husband? Well, the relationship between Jenny and Danny was far from perfect. He wanted more sex than she wanted to give him, he did not want to change his job so that he earned more money, saying his job was also a hobby (what a lame excuse!), and he did not like her mother’s family enough. He was little ambitious, she thought. In spite of their rather spoiled marriage, she was not going to tolerate any affair of his. If he had a lover, he would never change his job and life according to Jenny’s concept. Jenny decided to meet the woman.
She made a plan to pretend she was an insurance agent. She took some insurance papers from a branch office near their house, put them into a briefcase similar to the one she had seen at an insurance agent who had visited their house some time before, and called the number. They arranged a meeting at a small restaurant in the center of the town.
Jenny came quite soon, so she could have some drink. She needed it as her hands were shaking. She did not know what she would tell the woman because she had not worked out her plan into details. She hoped she would manage not to give herself away. Then a blond slim woman came into the restaurant. She looked around and when she noticed a big apple – their sign - on Jenny’s table, she came closer.
“Mrs Dubovska?”
Dubovska was not Jenny’s surname, she chose that because she could not use her real surname.
“Yes, nice to meet you, Miss Janku.”
The blonde sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. While they were doing some small talk Jenny inspected her potential rival. Miss Janku was the type of blond women that never tan. Her complexion was very pale, her hair was dyed golden blond. She had long slim arms and long fingers. “Is she a doctor?” thought Jenny looking at her carefully cut, short nails. She had small light blue eyes.
Jenny started to play the role of insurance agent. She had learned some information about the insurance company and general conditions of the insurance, so the beginning was easy. She hoped that later she would have a possibility to let her rival speak. Miss Janku was listening patiently sipping her coffee. “If only I knew how to make her speak about herself!” thought Jenny.
But just when Jenny came to the end of her introductory speech, the moment she ran out of her prepared stuff to play, something fell into Miss Janku’s right eye. The blond started rubbing her eye carefully.
“I am sorry,” she said, “but there is something in my eye, it … sorry …”
Jenny waited. Suddenly a small almost invisible object fell out of the eye of the young woman.
“Oh, my contact lens!” she said.
The small piece of silicon floated on the surface of the coffee. Jenny did not know how to help her, although to help this woman was the last thing she had ever indented on doing. Miss Janku, was looking at the contact lens sinking into the coffee.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. … eh?
“I’m sorry Mrs. Dubovska, I will have to go to the bathroom. I will be back in a minute.”

While waiting, Jenny was contemplating her chances. She thought this might be a good opportunity to leave the insurance stuff aside and get to know something about the woman, something personal. She might speak with her about contact lenses and life and friends and this way she might be able to get to know if she really was the mistress of her husband. Then she would tell her … what? Jenny was not sure. Probably to leave her husband alone?

The door to the toilette opened and Miss Janku was coming. She was wearing blue plastic frames with prescription glasses. Jenny’s heart stopped. The glasses flashed light. When the blonde sat down again, Jenny could see that the fronts of the lenses were flat. She tried to look into the young lady’s eyes. They were very small. The thick lenses with strange rings were hiding them. When Miss Janku turned her head to the side to put her purse on a chair, Jenny could see the lenses were protruding towards the lady’s eyes. They were ground in a special way. The edges were polished and beveled. They did not look as thick from the side as they looked from the front view. The young lady must have been severely myopic. Jenny was looking at the blue glasses, the strong lenses, the concentric rings, and the small defective eyes of the woman.
“I am sorry, but as my contact lens got damaged I had to put my glasses on. I inherited high myopia after my father. I cannot see anything without my glasses. They help my poor vision although not enough to be allowed to drive …”
But Jenny was not listening to her. Like in a dream, in a kind of nightmare, she took the papers, stuffed them into her briefcase, put a banknote on the table and left the restaurant. She knew she had no chance. The young lady was very myopic, she wore the kind of glasses Danny mentioned several times when they saw somebody wearing them in a street. He called them lenticular lenses. He often spoke about glasses, more often than any normal person did.  She knew it turned him on, he must have had a kind of fetish. She was sure as one day, when Jenny was typing something on tier computer at home, she found a subfolder full of pictures on the hard disk. It was full of pictures of women. Some of them were dressed, the others were naked, but all of them wore strong glasses with thick lenses.
Jenny knew she had no chance.

I wrote this story in December 2002 for Eye Scene. It was sent to the server in January 2003 and soon somebody wrote a second episode of it, creating a happy end. I don’t mind if anybody uses my story to write a continuation, although in this case it seemed to me rather funny, as I intended to write the story with the pessimistic end. When I have read the second part I just thought "Oh, those Americans, they cannot live without their happy end!"
So here is the no-happy-end mini story:

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