He Called me Baby

I truly enjoy writing in English. That makes me only a fan not a pro, but someday I’ll master it. Meanwhile I practice on a daily basis and don’t give a damn if get it wrong sometimes; I don’t care if I fail or if the speech ends up being a mix up of all the languages I know. This is an excerpt, the absolutely raw version -English will be polished I promise- of my new digital book hopefully put for sale by the end of this year. The title has not yet been defined, but most probably will be “He called me Baby”. Subtitle “Tiny True Stories”.

The K Party

Every single time I get these beautiful happy cards I wonder why on earth people keep inviting me to parties. My social skills are zero and that fact is well known among friends and clients. I guess they haven’t lost hope on me; they think awkwardness is a mood related and time dependent disease. Well, it’s not.

But I made my friend a promise, and so attending this particular event was not optional. Good thing is big parties are ghost parties, nobody really notices anybody; hello dear, hors d’oeuvres, small talk here and there, and by the time dancing begins I’ll be gone. Too bad this was a formal event in an embassy. You think Hollywood ambiance is frivolous or stiff? Wait till you get to know diplomats and their wives.

In such carefully planned happenings singles are placed together, and so we losers ended up sharing a big table for dinner. And that was the moment when I saw him for the first time; he was vis à vis from me cheerfully talking to some guys who in relation to him, looked like Lilliputians given their low profile and his height. The guy next to me came from outgoing Denmark and by the time the dessert was served he asked me if I was up for a BIG surprise. I gracefully declined his generous proposition not before asking what part of my behaviour that night motivated his. He reached out to hug me and whispered, “I’ve always been drawn to intelligent women with a nice derrière.” Awkward to say the least; odd thing he thought he was making ME a compliment. I decided to skip coffee and left on the spot.

But filer à l’anglaise of that particular embassy was not as easy as I thought; evaluating my chances silly me chose one of the maison’s empty kitchens as the perfect detour. And there I was in that place actually trying to unlock the back door handle and take my usual French leave through the back yard when I heard a deep voice close behind my back. It scared the hell out of me.

  • Ya’ won’t crack it without a proper tool, Lady.

Caught in the act I hastily turned around and mumbled,

  • Excuse me?
  • Ya’ heard me.
  • I surely did, clever man.

Three seconds of sheer silence; this guy looked at me with such impudence I felt naked. Mariachis as background music.

  • It’s been quite a reception, ain’t it? He spoke with a strong US-Southern accent. Texas? Bad, sad memories rolled down.
  • Sure, great occasion. I replied sarcastically.
  • So why’re ya’ creepin’ out?
  • Creeping out? Shit, so busted, damn it!!
  • So that’s it, huh? Another one with a BIG surprise.

I rolled my eyes and sighed.

  • None of your Biz. Who cares? Who are you btw?

He took his time. Agilely moved his burly body towards the entrance and then placed it parsimoniously in the kitchen’s threshold pretty much covering the whole space.

  • K. He ultimately said elevating his chin straight-facing my outraged persona.

To top it all off, K. Lord almighty, was I forever doomed to find my former boyfriend someway or the other wherever I go? I felt stupid, so I impolitely replied.

  • K? Is that supposed to be a name?

No answer only a flash of sadness in his eyes, which I totally disregarded and didn’t let loose.

  • OK, OK K, never mind. Nice to meet you “Kay”; it’s been my pleasure. I grabbed my purse and walked towards the entrance.
  • Now, would you be so kind step aside and let me get the f**k out of here?

He stretched out his arms up to the lintel, took a long gaze at his old leather boots and said,

  • Hell no Ma’am.
  • I. BEG. YOUR. PARDON? !!!!!!

And piercing me with his eyes, he quietly added,

  • Ah don’t see it happenin’. Not until ya’ quit bein’ up’dee with me. Ah see “lady” written all over yer purtee face, so ya’ better show some respect and start behavin’ as such…. as of now.

Words cannot even remotely describe my bewilderment in that moment. Unable to offer any defence since in the next breath I felt as if a lightning bolt had struck me. Only very rarely I’ve found myself at a loss for ground; my legs gave out and the rest is history.

Note: The Universe works in mysterious ways, down by law I later learned –in a more forgiving way- that up’dee stands for uppity, a trait no man in Texas is able or willing to bear, in no way.

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