THE THIRD EYE
She was a fresh-graduate job applicant but wanted to be wardrobe consultant of celebrities. He was a media executive. He lodged at a five star hotel in California and lounged on the balcony of his hotel suite in the evenings reading newspapers over Champagne.
For the past three days she had been watching him through the louvers of her paneled room. She thought him intelligent, smart and sophisticated. He seemed too engrossed in his papers, official documents and laptop to notice her. She liked her man tall, confident, charming but not necessarily handsome. But he was handsome! She was a linguist, ex-model cum beauty queen. An exquisite blonde with hazel eyes, long tapering legs, confident lips, atrocious hips, He had a predilection for blondes who are on top of their games – cool, calm, collected and armed with independent outlook; dependent attitude, flaccid smiles; turgid chuckles.
When I see a model
I ‘see’ dieting – the fat tithing!
She decided to advertise her wares unknown to her that he was a media genius, a public relations expert. Had a warm, fragrant bath, carried out some cosmetic reactions and clad a figure-hugging animal print with daring, attention-calling stilettos. Her attire opened the doors of her body curves and statistics but left much for the imagination because only the shadows sashay out, the fresh flesh was under wraps. “I think this is enough for his eyes to access and admire and send an email to his brain to assess and desire,” she bluffed.
As she walked out of her tastefully furnished apartment, she could hear her curves whispering to him, Can you see what I’ve got? This is just the wrapper, the precious gift is delicately tucked (like a baby in the womb) inside. Voice your content into my ears and I could be yours. After all women are moved by sound; men by sight. To stay fit and savour the lukewarm early evening breeze which would caress her long blonde hair, a priceless delight, she had to stroll. She walked in a self-conscious sophisticated gait from her apartment located in a metropolitan neighbourhood, through Leroy Boulevard, into the hotel premises.
The hotel looked cosmopolitan and smelt sophisticated. The arts and crafts of various lands were represented, yeah an epitome of globalisation! From the fuschia pink Persian rug décor through Hispanic paintings, to African antiques treasured in the gallery and museum. Suffice to say it had global appeal hence riveting to its diverse clientele. She actually booked a suite on the third floor where she guessed his suite was. Her luggage was wheeled to her room while she walked majestically behind. She finally entered her room and lounged heavily on the bed. She loved the mint-green walls, the coffee-coloured duvet and the various colours blended with their diverse shades – an aesthetic, idyllic complement.
The settings in the suite preach calm and peace, an antidote to the stress of hustling and bustling of the outside world. “Oh, goodness, I love the air and aura, mien and ambience of this haven, a promise of heaven for a peaceful soul,” she had soliloquised. Thirty minutes later, she came out of her suite and walked down the elegantly tiled and fragrant hall. The vicinity like a poet spoke in rhymes, rhymes of affluence, elegance and exotic taste.
She was confused, lost and knew not which of the doors to knock but her intuition was in total control, it spurred her on. She bus-stopped at the second to the last door on her right and rapped on the door. “Angel at the angle, please hold on! I’m on my way just give me 7 days,” a masculine voice bellowed. She was excited, thrilled, frightened, expectant and on tenterhooks all at the same time. She brought out her make-up brush to spread her flush but she blushed the more. She had rehearsed how she would use the ‘7 days’ he’d mentioned as the pen to start a friendly conversation.
The door was opened, lo and behold the shortest of short men appeared, smiling sheepishly. She was disappointed, her balloon deflated. She held her breath and her pale skin was turning green; was she about to carry out photosynthesis? Maybe not! “Hi sweetheart,” a big voice rolled out of the small man. “Sorry, I made a mistake!” she finally found her missing voice. Her excitement fell from height to depth like the fall of humpty dumpty and the work of art in her heart screamed and sobbed. She looked at the small big man with disdainful eyes; he peered at her longingly and scratched his beard sheepishly. “Some women are beautiful, some pretty but you’re handsome, blonde. Would you mind a glass of Champagne from Champagne, France?” he inquired.
“I thought the coke from The Bahamas and that from The Marshall Islands were the same? That speaks professionalism, the hallmark of multinationals, Mr. ignorant Brewer?” she fired volleys of abuse at him, steamed and stormed out like commuters in a burning vehicle. “Sweetheart, that’s logic and honestly I would be happy if you were right but logic is not always fact ….” he muttered but she had left even if she had heard him she wouldn’t have said a word for she was neither interested in him nor his conversation.
With furrowed brow, jangling nerves she went back to her suite. She felt irritated and of course dejected. She removed her pricey stilettos, lounged and ensconced on the fluffy couch and sleep kidnapped her but at peace point and released her at 7.30pm. She jumped out of bed, rushed into the cubicle to freshen up. She later dabbed her delicate body with immaculate towel; applied cosmetics – beauty abracadabra, clothed her vitals and sashayed along the hall.
She saw a man opened the door of his suite, stepped out briefly and paced back quickly. Yippee, that was the game she was out to poach! He didn’t see her; she gasped on sighting him and her heart peeped from the window of her mouth and heaved a sigh of relieve. She strode along balancing her graceful body on her delicate frame. Finally, she knuckled the door and waited impatiently, anxiety written all over her face.
“The very soft, exotic cologne, tells me a very calm, romantic woman is at my door,” he voiced poetically, romantically. He inched towards the door in calculated steps, Hollywood strides like Royce Lambert of the very popular soap, The Empire, and opened with impatient hand. “Hi,” she voiced. “Oh, beauty, thanks for giving my eyes a feminine masterpiece, idyllic scenery to peer at,” he whispered. Don’t blame him, he was a media genius and first impression matters a lot in the corporate world. He was decked in ash sweat shirt, crisp denim trousers and posh trekkers. “You can say that again,” she exhaled and winked at him. Her dulcet voice embraced his eardrums and he felt enraptured and was actually raptured to the top of Mount Romance. “I’m Victor, Victor Johnson, may I meet you?” he inquired.
She paused a bit, surprise written all over her. “Never mind, sorry for intruding on your privacy. I’m at the wrong place,” she piped and turned to leave. He held her hand on impulse. She felt the warmth and softness of his fingers on her wrist. Intimacy on her mind. His nerves had received a stimulus and processed the signals using branding template. “Pretty, I just told you my name; it’s a 21st century world, a world where independence is becoming obsolete and interdependence is being enthroned. Your name please,” he voiced smartly and assertively. She had a weakness for smartness and couldn’t resist the smart gesture.
“Okay, I’m Victoria,” she spat daintily.
“You’re kidding me!” he quipped.
She looked at him with cold eyes and said with warm voice, “In freezing your nerves completely, I’m Victoria John.” He regarded her with bright, longing yet unbelievable eyes. So she brought out her ID card and gave him. “What an amazing happenstance… I know we have more in common,” he whispered. He excused himself, went inside, took and gave her his complimentary card and asked, “Vicky, would you mind if I ask for dinner with you tonight? It’s an inn, it has a penthouse Chinese restaurant!”
“Tomorrow is Friday, maybe tomorrow, please.” He asked for her mobile and they exchanged numbers. He stretched his hand to her and she took it and smiled at him. She saw heavens in his eyes; he saw paradise in hers! Victoria John, Victor Johnson, what a combination! He was dashing, to her; she was smashing to him. He watched her closely as she walked down the hall and imagined walking down the aisle with her. She was once a model, and once a model, always a model. He loved her accent, panache, poise and gait. “I love that firm, for it’s an amazing brand,” he voiced coolly and walked dryly into his room feeling like the very source of joy and happiness.
When she entered her room, she was conscious of her stilettos so she removed quickly and thereafter jumped and moonwalked in the air much better than the legendary Michael Jordan on the basketball court. “The boy is mine … apology to Monica Denise Brown,” she voiced heartily and cheerfully.
He called her at 8:30pm just to say hello. She reluctantly picked the call at the tail end. They exchanged pleasantries and he said, “Sweetheart, today is October 27, a remarkable day in our lives because 27 is a significant number. 27 years of Mandela; 27 wives of Fela Anikulapo Kuti. The 27 years of Mandela had the wrapper of adversity but the gift of opportunity. That made Mandela one of the greatest men of all time. The 27 wives of Fela, Nigerian Afrobeat music legend tells me I met my wife on the 27th of October ….”
“Who told you I would marry you? Besides, we’d never dated let alone engage much less marry. Your guts and gusto laced with effrontery would put you behind bars someday, believe me, just believe me,” she teased him and truncated the call dramatically. He felt rejected, tired and wanted to retire. He got bored and yawned; nonetheless he smiled. It was a bitter smile but a kind of psychotherapy. He threw his phone on the couch and tried to sleep but sleep had absconded and stress had descended. He counted sheep yet no sleep!
At last he picked up his phone and called her again. “Darling, I’m sorry if I offended you but you’re irresistible,” he muttered. She laughed dryly and voiced, “But you’re resistible that’s why your magnet can’t trap me. Anyway, sleep well we’ll talk it over tomorrow, okay?” When he heard that he was thrilled, and he retorted coolly, “Thanks, blonde!” She smiled and later laughed at the other end.
They met for dinner the following night and their chemistry was superb. Their company super. They chatted like they knew each other for decades. They shared the same birthday – December 1st but he was four years older than her. She knew there and then that a spiritual force must have pushed her to him because ideally she wouldn’t have visited the hotel let alone connect with him, not even in her wildest imagination. “We are not human beings having a spiritual experience, we are spiritual beings having a human experience.” – Pierre Teilhard de Chardin.
They were so compatible in personality. They had a lovely courtship, splendid wedding and homely marriage.
She looked independent but had a dependent (not needy) personality and he liked such personalities. If you had told her you would be at her place at 4pm once it’s 4:01pm and she didn’t see you, she’ll pick her phone immediately to know what happened, where you are and whatnots. It tells him she wants and desires him but not needy. A needy person on the hand would start calling at 3:30pm when you had told her you would be at her place at 4:00pm.
A needy woman wants you to bear her cross 24/7, Victoria on the other hand wants to bear her cross but have you around her to comfort and support, inspire and encourage her which is like bearing her cross for her but here it’s an admixture of pleasure and pressure not endurance all the way which makes men run away from needy women. She laughs succinctly; smiles generously – the qualities of his dream woman.
He liked unique things needless to say he was a trendsetter. So they had their wedding on his yacht cruising the Mediterranean Sea on a moonlight night. Of course, in the presence of family, few friends and two clerics. Oh, what a romantic wedding! They had the first three days of their honeymoon in his exotic mansion, overlooking the sea and jetted to Al-Burj- Arab Dubai, one of the leading hotels in the world.
She loved his confidence, electrifying personality and mesmerising sense of humour. Since they were friends, best of friends, they were fund of each other and vice versa; because they communed and in line they aligned well; they talked much and communicated well. They had an interesting union suffice to say a wonderful and awesome marriage.
If Victor was heart, Victoria was blood; if Victoria was heart, Victor was blood! What an amazing combination, yeah an intriguing permutation!
Each day in their lives was like their honeymoon – blissful moments, fruitful seasons! In fact, their hiccups and challenges never separated them instead they glued and validated their relationship. Misunderstandings bring them closer to each other in an attempt to fight their problems and not their persons. So they lived happily ever after.
Author: Olayemi J Ogunojo © 2013