Fatima Elmusbahi — An Experience of Sugar

Elizabeth Atherton

THE JOURNALIST WENT TO INTERVIEW JACARANDA PIERCE.

Pierce was in a foyer on a folding chair watching a television: “Get a load of that,” said Pierce. On the television there was a man in the bucket of an excavating machine, blithe as a baby animal in a basket, hands and feet invisible, and there was another man driving the machine. The foyer and the options which extended from the foyer were wallpapered in a pattern which was like a Blue Willow teacup except that its pagodas and pear-shaped birds were red like a Krakow necklace and the stripe of light on its water was a nacre iridescent. Jacaranda Pierce wore a party-colored silk shirt. He was smiling at the journalist. He had long sliding blue eyes. Between its dark hair and its shirt and its handmade wallpaper, the face of Pierce was as if space aliens had tried to design a piece of jewelry by the standards they understood to be human: a gold braided circle, a bed of pink stone, a trout affixed to the center. The trout is silver with rainbow on its hip and so you can see why it would accede to the logic of what is called jewelry, if you were new. The journalist was there to ask Pierce about his money by asking about his art collection. Pierce stood with the car-crash sound that folding chairs make when they are disturbed. “I’ll show you the big one,” said Pierce. Pierce’s legs were long and streamed calmly down the red shining passages of his home, which smelled of gardenia. Once when the journalist was a little boy his father took him to the Health Museum where there was a red building in a bright room. The building was a giant heart with an entrance in one ventricle and an exit in the other, so that you could be like blood. The heart had speakers in it which stomped with the heartbeat sound. Other children went in, hands empty, square shirts showing Dalmatians or the names of summer camps. His father said that it would be okay but the journalist couldn’t bring himself to go inside. The next week the journalist asked his father to take him to the Health Museum again and this time the journalist entered the giant artificial heart. That was how the journalist had been in boyhood. The walls of the heart were round and high and red and the heartbeat sounded on them. Jacaranda Pierce introduced the journalist to a great gray room, hugeceilinged. There was nothing in the room but a statue and the statue was 15 feet high. It was a bull with a human’s head. It seemed very far away. The oldman-head pulled its body prettily, right hind leg stepping forward, left proudly pressed back. The ribs of the bull rose in rainbow-shaped sweeps from the bull’s torso into a bolt of hair at its belly. A feathered wing was folded along its shoulder. The face of the bull was looking at the entrance, at Pierce and at the journalist, smiling. It was built to guard the gate of the throne room of the king of Assyria several thousand years in the past. “That’d make me think twice,” said Jacaranda Pierce. “Ha ha! ‘Go away!’”

“LET’S TALK DADDY AND BABY GIRL”

Fatima Elmusbahi

I never really look for a muse baby, they always just came out of nowhere and I just knew they were the right fit for myself. Yes, sometimes social media helps you get around, but I prefer the real encounters and natural flow of conversation for that connection to form. I just happened to be exploring the right circles when I came across her. She was younger than the usual I invest my time in, but she was new and rather naïve to a companionship such as this. I suppose I wanted to be a great first impression and look after her like no other one has. Of course, I must set my limits as I am the one who will be financing her, so I needed to set the boundaries of this relationship, with no blurred lines.

Our first date was in an intimate and cozy café that I felt should make her feel more relaxed, with no obnoxious formalities. I told her to come alone of course, dressed comfortably, as this is the beginning-so there was no pressure. Yet, she came in confidently and promptly. Wearing a fitted skirt that accentuated her waist and body, and in fact got the attention of everyone there. Yes, she was the right choice and most probably the best one yet for me. I wanted someone to pass the time with, around business hours, someone gentle natured and able to handle the mounting stress of the life I lead. Did she need to know of the doting wife and demanding teenagers I had at home waiting for me? Absolutely not. But that is the thing about a relationship such as this, it was never too personal and she was never entitled to access me beyond my cheque book. I played all the cards here.

Second, third and so on dates, where all to be made at hotels around the area, commutable on separate terms and private enough so that none shall bat an eyelid. I eased her gently into the world I was immersing her into, making sure she knew what was expected of her and what was not permitted in any sense. Execution of plans around my schedule was imperative to me and one she had to respect; of course, as expected, she adapted and provided much more than I ever predicted due to her intuition and natural flexibility to the matters at hand.

Her fees altered depending on what she was willing to give me. Video calls and general conversation were only permitted in the evening hours between 20:00 and 20:30, but she was allowed to send risqué and enticing videos (in whichever degree she desired), for further rewards and commission. Of course, business between me and her could extend into the early morning if she agreed to it, and for the most part she did indeed. One thing that particularly drew me to her in comparison to the other babies I had, was the fact she never lingered or expected more. She knew when she was no longer welcome. She left without me ever asking her too.