Well Run Dry

Mightily annoyed Jack at his girl's falsity. Wounded by it. She had lied to him not once; not twice. Many times. Man didn't mind if she wanted to be a pussycat, go off for a few hours earn some dosh. But lying to him. That he could not abide; could not stand for it. He was like that, Jack explained; not exactly happy being such, it appeared in the way Jack told it and in his manner. Tonight he would not open the door to the lady. Throw out her things, he would. Didn’t care if she was forced to sleep on the Void downstairs, or wherever else. By some kind of prior arrangement, tomorrow night Jack would host two women at his place. The other no more. What a pitiable face she had shown a day or two ago at the Haig table. Could not be more than glimpsed; the glance quickly sliding. God almighty!… ako postoji / If you exist, sometimes Bab would blasphemously add in such circumstances. Hard to imagine the woman embracing Jack and being embraced in his arms. She was an Indo Batam lass, yes, Jack confirmed. It did take some imagining. Desperation. Destitution. Kids over there if there were any would be relying on charity for food, at the mosques most likely. Would any single man of the group in the first row at the Haig, the front tables there by the Paki teh stall, go with Jack Nasri's woman? Was it possible? Perhaps one of them would pity her and offer shelter. The Batam ladies often slept in the corridors of the Haig flats, $10-15 per night for those who picked up a bit of work. A fright glimpsing, even without catching the eye. When her eye was caught going along there it made you wince. For that lady's living you had insufficient pity in your store; it was not a bottomless well. In her single person that lady would drain you dry in a trice.