Tales from the tub - Averyl

Averyl

Averyl was in love. But she had been in love before and now she was a cynic.

"He". It made her laugh. The royal "He". He, him, the person you are looking for that you have no idea what to do with once you find.

"What do I do with love?"

"What do you mean, you revel, you rejoice, you have what everyone wants," Stephi found her friends' indecision infuriating. How dare this bitch question her good fortune.

But, for Averyl, it was a valid question. What do you do with it. It isn't a physical or tangible thing. It is a concept. It's an idea. A construct. What do you do with something that is actually nothing, in real terms.

"Love is an intangible asset, what does it mean? Is all," she retorted with suboptimal conviction, "I know it's what I want, but I don't know what it is, which brings me to my point, which is, what is it and what do I do with it?"

Seeking love is a monopolistic activity. It overrides all others. The seeking of it, unfortunately, detracts from the reality of having it. Many, once they have it, stop. Mission accomplished. Often in this instance the relationship stagnates and fails. Why? Because there was never any plan, no plan, beyond the acquisition.

So, there she was, in love, with no plan. No idea what to do with it. As aforementioned, she had been in love before, she knew she could find love again, so why keep this one?

No love is greater than another. You aren't comparing apples with apples. You can't. Each love is unique. So, how do you pick one from another.

I am pushing this back to my bored readers. Finish my story! What do you do with love once you have it? Help me!

Tales from the tub - Petunia

Petunia ( and The great rubber bridge bun heist )

Utter, utter relief. Defecation used to be something Petunia winced at the thought of even discussing. Today, it was a joyful occurrence. It meant everything was alright, all her woes released from her body in one great cathartic motion.

Somewhere in her mid-30's, somehow, she came across the Bristol stool chart. It was a life changing experience. Consumed now, as she was, with the consistency, shape, color and buoyancy of her relief.

"How are you Peti?" Gladice beemed. She had been beeming since she had her dentures replaced with porcelain caps. A barbie doll's smile on the body of a gollum figurine.

"You look stupid Glady, those teeth are too big, didn't they give options?"

"I look fantastic, it took ten years off, shut up and deal."

Gladice and Petunia had been rubber bridge partners for 5 years. They met in a graveyard.

"So, your husband is dead, huh, mine too."

Gladice shrugged, "it would appear so."

"Did you like him?"

Thinking on this, "not really."

"I didn't really like mine either, sorry for your loss."

"You too."

"I always wished I had married Tim Seres."

"Me Too!!!!"

They were firm friends thereafter, bonded by the conflicting emotions. The loss of someone you love but are thoroughly sick of and their rampant lust for Tim Seres, the international king of rubber bridge.

The year was 1958, London, Tim owned the bridge scene. When Tim entered a room, heads turned, women crossed their legs and cigarettes were lit. Little did they know, when they met in a graveyard many lifetimes later, they had both been there. Vying for his attention, waiting for the privligde of playing with him. Nothing is more attractive to a woman than a man that lives on his own terms, this was Tim's philosophy.

While both women adored this man and they adored his sport, call it circumstance, call it generational, they had never lived on their own terms. Now, with their husbands beneath their feet, they were free. Now, they could live like Tim.

As it's name suggests, rubber bridge is played in rubbers. A rubber is the best of three games. Each game built on a contract and the game won by the first team to score 100 points for successful contracts. A contract is the assurance that you will produce a certain score in a hand as predicted.

Perhaps, that's why rubber bridge spoke to Petunia and Gladice. Their lives were based on contracts.

You marry me, you take care of me and I predict I will have your children. If I am successful you will take care of me and our children for the rest of our lives.

Now, with their husbands in the grave, the stakes were higher, they had new contracts to negotiate. They had been scoping out this bakery for the last three weeks. It was a block from were they met to play bridge. Each morning they would walk past and buy a pastry and a coffee. Unassuming septergenarian bridge players.

They needed money. Their husbands, while loving , had left them nothing but stretch marks, ungrateful children, piles and neurosis. They wanted more.

On their way to the regional rubber bridge tournament one summer day, they didn't show up. A win, but slightly disatisfying for their aponents, a forfeit.

As Gladdy and Peti drove towards their futures with a bun truck and $30,000 cash from the register.

Tales from the tub - Abigail (Abi)

Abigail (Abi)

Running her hands through the back of her hair, wrapping her fingers intricately and determinantly around the blond strands she gripped and she pulled,

"AAhhh," shrieking distress, even this was not enough to vent her frustrations.

Getting up she paced backwards and forwards through her flat. Abi was successful, successful by everyone's standards but her own. At 32, she had a successful legal practice, small but her own, sufficient to buy her own apartment. She had travelled the world to acquire trinkets and laboriously furnished her space to her liking. She had everything. She wanted for nothing.

Ani Defranco, over her speakers as she paced,

"I have everything I want, still I want more," sang the siren. Abi pulled harder on her hair, as if she was trying to pull subconscious thoughts out through her follicles.

"AAhhh." That one hurt. A clump of hair in her hand and it hadn't worked, she had gotten no closer to the answer she was trying to retrieve. The answer to a question that many of us ask ourselves and rarely answer honestly. "What is it I really want, how can I have everything and still want for something...?"

A baby, she thought, I'm 32, I must want a baby. no, no ,no. A new car, is that it? My old Mazda is a bit ordinary, and I can afford it. no, no, no. A holiday, I've never been to Tahiti, perhaps the answer is a holiday? no, damn it, no. A new lover, she cut herself off there, god no!

"Libiamo, libiamo ne'lieti calici
che la belleza infiora.
E la fuggevol ora s'inebrii
a volutt"

In perfect tenor through her window, through the monotony of her thoughts. Standing stock still, her body, led by her left ear, elongated towards the sound like a petal to the sun.

Rag clad, head to toe, there was this man. 'La Traviata', at the top of his lungs, passionatly, making a concert hall of an inner urban street.

Passion, she realised, that's what I need. This man has nothing but a passion, I have everything but no love for any of it.

That night Abi went to bed with a greater sense of purpose. When she woke. Nothing changed. Let's face it, this wouldn't be a realistic tale if it had. But ever after when Abi felt trapped and lost in her perfect world, she would hear 'La Traviata', drawing strength from the potential embodied in one vagrant man's passion.