That Other Journal, when, where?
Mr R climbed into the backseat of the taxi beside me, his brown coat smelling of soap and rain. He wore dark glasses, as he always did. Not to shade the sun, but to hide his eyes. I only saw them once. Mr R is my boss, and my client, and my friend.
"You were watching the cafe," he stated as he seated himself, then he lent forward, tapped the driver, and said get moving.
"I was," I confessed. "I thought, but I didn't."
"I see." And he left it at that, and began twirling his whispy moustache faster and faster around his littlest finger.
He wanted to know when I would choose my next client, whever it would be free or pay. "Pay," I assured him. But I wondered if lied to myself.
Mr R had financed my last client, a woman who needed to break free from a childhood of despression. I'd seen her in a telephone box, struggling with the coin slot as the change fell out again and again and again. She's started shouting, and beating the receiver against the receptical. It's dramatic moments like those that attract me. I ran to her, grabbing her shoulders. "Stop, stop, stop!" And she'd became my next client. Until her frustration was realeased, and she moved on.
Mr R cleared his throat, and stated that if I already had my sights on a client I should say so. But I shook my head and smiled. "Only you are good enough to know that," I said. And laughed. He wasn't sure what I meant, and neither was I to be honest.
After that, Mr R took me to dinner.
Love,
Me.