Mrs. Olivarez got out of his room, trunk-like thighs swinging, buttocks filling out the red nylon shorts.
With a smile, she swayed towards him, distracting him from the TV, and plopped down beside him, smelling of shampoo and body wash.
She reached for the plate of toast and grapes by herself.
Toast and grapes. Marke thought. She assumed I was trying to be romantic by feeding her grapes and toast. How can someone be so stupid?
No. No. Marke caught himself. She didn't mean anything earlier. Just words uttered stemming from a misunderstanding is all.
Any other day he would've joked about it with her. Not today.
Marke decided to get straight to business. Her presence and scent only made him agitated, thighs spilling out on the leather couch, and still irked with her prior words, he wanted to do terrible things to her mouth.
Calm your mind, Marke. He told himself. Business. Business. No Sex. Okay, maybe after. But first, business.
Clearing his throat, Marke called her attention, emerald irises turning to him with innocence. He had to admit the woman was pretty. She used to be a model back in the day—he had seen her photos. She had been the prettiest one on a reality show about hot girls solving quizzes.
"I won't beat around the bush," he said. "I need some money to open up a massage parlor someplace in Glate, and the first person I thought of asking was you." He added, "Also, don't think you are obligated to do this," he shook his head, "not at all. If you think there is promise in what I'm pitching to you, invest. If not, there's no need to bother yourself. Just be honest."
"A massage parlor?" She nodded pensively. "In my experience, only massage parlors with the ladies giving the massages run on a profit, and that too because they give out happy endings. Are you thinking of a traditional massage parlor?"
"Maybe?" He asked tentatively. He hadn't given it that much thought. "Look," he explained, "what I want is to use my skill, the ones I used on you earlier, to use it on my customers so I can earn."
"Big cash?"
"Of course," he answered instantly.
"Massage parlors don't earn big cash," she stated. "Big cash and massage parlor," she shook her head, "not happening."
"Even with my skills?" He asked, incredulous.
"You are one man," she deadpanned. "How many people can you massage in a day? Or do you want to massage people morning to night? Marke, be honest with yourself. Do you want to work with other people? Can you work with other people? Twenty-five Sundays I have come here, and to me, you don't seem like the type to work under anyone or with anyone for that matter. Am I wrong?"
"Not," he stared at Mrs. Olivarez, "completely." He was startled at how accurate her judgment was.
"To get your name out there, are you willing to work under someone?"
Marke pondered, staring dazedly at the table, his face under frizzy hair after a shower staring back. The work he had done till now, day-trading—wasn't it all so he wouldn't have to be around people? As he grew, the more he distanced himself from people, long-term exposure to people he didn't lie with or wish to lie with always gnawing at his peace.
Nobody was honest, himself included, and he found it difficult to trust others with even the smallest of tasks. And though honesty was harsh at times, Marke appreciated the quality nonetheless.
"No," he replied.
"Then, what's the use of a massage parlor?" She asked, shrugging and pursing her lips.
It was sound logic, and Marke couldn't find any glaring errors with her argument. "I didn't know you had me figured out so well," he admitted.
"When you've lived as long as I have," she winked. "You learn a lot."
He let out a nasally chuckle. "You might have lived long, but you still act like a teenager."
"I am one by heart," she replied cheekily.
Marke snickered. "Definitely ride like one."
"I am Ola Olivarez after all," she proclaimed, and Marke had to hold in a laugh at her name.
"Ola Olivarez," he repeated. "Hello Olivarez." He shrugged with his brows. "Never ceases to amuse."
"Exactly that," she said proudly. "Hello Olivarez. Hello from where? I would like to think," she motioned to the ceiling with her eyes, "the heavens."
"And I'm the one who's corny," Marke scoffed, rolling his eyes.
"You get to be corny when you've seen and done everything as I have," she boasted, teasing.
The photos of her vacation without Mr. Olivarez and their children were a sight to behold. France, Sweden, and Germany—three countries in just one week. The wonders of money and marrying into riches. But Marke didn't despise or look down upon her for it—no matter how she got it, she had money, and that was all that mattered. "Is there a prerequisite to being corny I didn't know about?"
"Yup," she smiled. "You have to be me."
Or just rich. Money and wealth bought not only luxury and a means to satiate one's vanity, but also acceptance.
"Um," she said, raising the fork towards him, "I have an idea. Wanna hear it out?"
"Sure," he shrugged.
"So basically," she started, "I think you should start off going to people's houses and giving out massages rather than trying to call them to a certain location."
"A delivery messier?" He asked, squinting and raising a brow.
"Mmhm." She nodded. "Except you'll be delivering to the affluent."
Recalling her freak-out just a minute ago just because of perceived romantic affection, he bit back a joke about her being the only affluent woman he knew right now, which might imply in the woman's mind that he was asking to come over. She might freak out again. And Marke wasn't sure if he could hold back from going nuclear on the woman. He would probably have to move places then. That would be a hassle. The train of thought suddenly soured his mood.
"How?" He simply asked. "I do not know a lot of affluent people."
Mrs. Olivarez stared at him for a moment with lips pursed, exhaling a breath. He didn't think much of it. She could begin dancing upside down for all he cared right now.
But pretense was necessary to get what one desired from others.
What exactly in life made Marke feel small? When he wished to say something but couldn't, because of whatever reasons, that was when he felt small. It was a terrible feeling.
Mrs. Olivarez's lips lifted to a wide smile. "I do."