A WEEK- Tuesday-

It is still raining; it is now more the twelve hours of wet weather and according the weather voice on the radio it will going for all day long. The house is quiet; Butterfly’s bedroom door is wild open. Out of understanding I peep inside. The walls are painted in a minty green and the window is hidden behind a light veil. The bed, a girlish display of cushions and print flowers, is facing north. It is unmade. Two pair of high hells shoes, one of flat one, posh wellingtons and her flip-flops are placed under a rail with her dresses. In her open organizer just a note fills the day; today Butterfly has lessons of yoga at the gym. In the kitchen I see the remains of a breakfast. Jeremy and Divine are out too. I am alone.
Jeremy left Divine at Waterloo station. She has another half-hour to travel to attend her meeting with Mrs Amber. Jeremy arms himself with a copy of the Telegraph and made is way towards the belly of the station. His mates are waiting for him at the opposite exit to kick start the celebration for his goodbye to celibate; a stag party with a twist: no strippers just whores: money is power and inferior complexity is curable by any price. It is Divine’s idea this came together, nothing to do with him. Jeremy new friends are acquaintances of close past and they are part of his engagement: part of her baggage. Jeremy does not despise their friendship; he even mentions his admiration for their caring and wiliness to help with the weeding to Divine. There is a silence understanding between the four men, it is a tacit agreement laid down soon after they came together.
Butterfly is in the gym’s changing room. She has just finish her work-out of stretching, yoga and some more stretching. Her sport gear is drop on the bench in front of her locker; the white towel covers modestly her modesty. The vision of other women, buzzing freely to and from the shower, cuts through her esteem like a knife. She always very conscious of her appearance but her naked body is not strong enough to handle comparisons. To Butterfly’s eyes everything is too big, her feet, or too small, her breast. In the shower her composition struggle; her sight scans among the mist of hot vapours for the benchmarks of new feminine standards. Her body is toned and tanned; her arse is firm and high and she has a small gem dandling by her well form belly. Water and foam design the confines of her breast and shoulder; their eyes meet and Butterfly shivers at the thought of what is a long due transgression.
Double trouble ahead for me. My intake of caffeine is alarming and the clock has its sign exactly at 8.30 am. Mrs Elisabeth Virginia Anderson , as every week required my presence to assist with the running of the household . The only way for me to attend the folklorist brunch hosted by Mrs Anderson is to bare the delays and misfortuntes of the dark Northern Line. This event is always ended by Elisabeth, the “call by name” is result of a double couple of neat vodka, hanging by my elbow gracioly dismiss the various butlers and PA .With the bustling of the spells and courses still in my ears I am enduring other metropolitan carrege towrdas Cadmen Town. I leave Virginia with her dear JD to grab my second headache: Miss Anderson.
Jeremy knows very well what will happen next. After the chat and the slaps on the back, after the free-traded coffee and the high street shopping Jeremy know about the near future because it is his hidden past. Ketamine and pills deal between university benches them as now ; alllucinations. Jeremy and friends exchange glances with two fifty pounds of buyable piece of meat. The cinese take way to be served just before take-off. Reasons are permanently extinct. The plan design its outlines in his mind with lively props; years of bulling purge in form of snort music, some hands grab and some hands pin. Jeremy has his prey on inside.
Most of the teenagers I know are confused but Miss Athena Anderson is a confuse teenager with knowledge and she know how dispatch it. At eighty-teen she has come up with the definition of her gender: man over 30s weekdays and if they are married is a plus; the weekends are pillows fights with the girls. We have more in common we intend: I like pillows fights too. She sits with two other girls fumbling through the pages of copies of glamour magazines but she notices my presence peering above them. A nod and the girls leave displaying the last of high street collections. She wears stiletto boots. Athena likes playing me alone.
On the underground on her way home Butterfly is standing as many others around her. The air is grave, depressed but her feelings are free to fly. The room is book for this week-end; room for two, the two of them. The secret e-mails are the begin, the little glances to her legs and malicious glimpses of her underwear are the traps and this week-end is the unknowns of her dreamed relation. A jerk and the train come to a stop. A weave of people goes for the door taking the last gasp of Butterfly’s dream. She sit down trying to recall the magic of the feeling, an in vane attempt broken by the pass-by of many more stations.
With his head buzzing and his animal instincts rewarded Jeremy sit on the top deck of his night bus on the way home. The blue pills and the sound of pleads are sleeping placidly on the back of his mind ready to awake at this first opportunity. It is passing midnight and Jeremy thinks about love.
Her father is wrong. Her father is just another wheel of the system, a white collar corporate with a set of rules and appearances. The sense of a “good image” is the main requirement to walk along the board of the city; to parade like a peacock his proud achievements: his alcoholic wife and the Barbie doll daughter. Athena’s aspirations are more in line with the 21st century prototype of an independent woman. She is conscious of her beauty. She is aware of the looks she attracts. Her tone legs and thin ankles, the size 4 waist and wobbling arse, the long blonde hair and two blue eyes are the façade of the evil in her.
Divine is sleeping when Jeremy opens the house door. Her snoring rattles around the silence of the ally. The dinner is in the kitchen’s oven and his thoughts no way near to his brain. Jeremy sits down and quietly starts to eat. The look of his wife has erased the last hint of erection, the rasping of her difficult respiration speed up Jeremy’s plans towards their deployment. Tomorrow has prepared a date at the library with her. The futures begin in five days.