Dana Egyptian

The only hustling was supposed to be among the patrons. Maybe it made the customers feel safer, or something. The place had muted lighting, small pools from ceiling fixtures for each table, spots around the oval bar, and multi- colored disks playing over the dance floor. Ceiling fans spun slowly, swirling clouds of cigarette smoke. The room, for a Saturday, was about a third full. It was only 10:00, early. I thought, “Give it an hour,” as I perched on a stool at a tall table of four. The pose let me show some leg. I have nice legs, if I do say so myself. A waiter appeared immediately. I ordered a margarita, Gina (skinny bitch with a metabolic rate of a hummingbird!) got a beer. Red wine for Alexis. We made small talk as we watched the room. There were a few groups like ours and not many singles. Most of the customers were couples. I expected that to change, too. The deejay in his glassed in enclosure played a mixture of jazz and R&B. None of the music was loud. The conversations were. I actually rang the Spa but again drew a blank. Tea time on the Sunday she returned home. She was quiet and a little withdrawn. The early night was just that, things picked up during the week, she relaxed a little. A few weeks passed with no contact. Bedtime became more fun and Sara was back to her old self. I returned home on the Friday evening looking forward to a relaxing time together. Instead of Sara there to greet me there was a note. It was an apology, she said she did not want to upset me, a chance had arisen for her to do a full weeks intensive course with the Spa. She would be home the following weekend, she promised she would make it up to me. I tried to call with no luck, I emailed the Spa and got an out of office reply stating that the man would be away for a week. I realised this was the screw of control being tightened a little more. I resigned myself to a very lonely week, I went out that evening, and the drink did not make things any better. On my return I had.
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