HOUSE OF LIES

In this house, there are five bedrooms. Each bedroom has its tiny bathroom, what they refer to as ensuite in the fancy hotels. In each bathroom, there's a cabinet on the wall, and it holds some of the most precious things in the house, including a screwdriver and sleeping pills. Thus, the bathrooms are treated with a certain sacredness and are often referred to as a last resort.

This house, which sits on the corner from the part of town that houses the best clubs and fanciest hotels, has a parlor and a kitchen. Neither gets much use unless it is an off day for the people who live in the house and even then, the kitchen is the most preferred on those days. The house is called a swing and was bought at a steal, a prime piece of real estate it is. It has been occupied by this family for a year now, and the neighbors find them pleasant enough.

The people who live in the house work remotely most of the time. On a few occasions, they go into the office, and sometimes they come home with more work. Such is the nature of a freelance agent, who demands discretion and will only bend over for a select few. 

The owner of the house comes to check on it, once a week. She wears furs, blonde wigs, and slinky dresses, even when it is freezing. Sometimes she comes with a man, or two, or three. There are five bedrooms after all, and so there is enough room for everybody. Sometimes, the neighbors hear some music, sometimes La Traviata, sometimes something from Wagner, and some other nights, Beethoven's sonatas. The owner likes Wagner, even if she has no idea why she does. It is the mark of sophistication to like something you do not understand, she tells her tenants. 

When the owner comes, she tells her driver to park at the beginning of the street, and then she walks down the street. Her hips sway delicately, her shoulders held back and her belly tucked in. The old men in the retirement home often whistle as she passes, and she blows them a kiss in return. Old Mayer often wonders what would have happened if he was twenty years younger. Such prime flesh, he wonders, and then he stops such thoughts by pushing his hands under his volunteer's shirt. He's been slapped a few times. 

The owner stops at her house, walks around it to the garden, and then bends to smell the roses. A sniff here, a sniff there, a pluck beneath and she stands up straight. She walks into the house and sits on the single chair, her legs crossed at the knees. 

And then, her tenants walk in, sometimes in dishabille, sometimes in couture. It depends on the nature of the work to be done, or what stage of the work that they are in. She smiles at them, not unkindly, and asks for reports from the business week. It is all a formality, the reports, she knows everything. She books the clients and handles the money. They all know it. 

The girls know that she only comes to the house to see if Naomi is still using, to see if Harriet has stopped locking herself in the bathroom to cry for hours, and to see if Crystal is planning another power play.

And like always, she sees nothing, she hears nothing. Soon, they're dressed, the house scented, the bathrooms shut, and thus, the clients begin to walk in.

This whole story is a 'type and shadow' of a timeless institution that has existed for a very long time, and will most probably be around in the foreseeable future.

Guessed it already?

Photo by EVG Kowalievska from Pexels