Steal My Stuff: March 2011

Patrick looked around at the plush interior. The realistic paintings, hung perfectly. The spotless carpet, pattern-free, clean and fresh. The tables, all draped in clean white cloth, placed perfectly. The female patrons, sitting up, formal, pristine, their faces, their bodies, a picture of perfection.

He rubbed his eye. He wasn't listening.

'...and so I stood there waiting for a while, looking at the other dresses and bags and shoes and the person behind the thing gave me a plastic bag – not plastic, those good ones they give in exclusive places - and he said I looked sexy in what I was wearing but I'd look even better without it. Ha, he was such a tease. Jealous?'

Patrick looked back at his dining companion. Her long blonde hair falling in waves around her pale face. Deep red lips, thin nose, large green eyes, all wrapped in a slightly unnerving symmetry.

'Why would I be jealous,' he said in a monotone voice. 'I've only just met you.'

Jean started to laugh then caught herself. She lowered her head, smiling demurely, a scant exhale forcing out a tiny sound. She looked up, eyes wide open.

'So anyway,' she continued, 'after that I walked across the mall and had coffee with Courtney. You'll meet her, umm, you know, if we keep going with this. Which'd be really nice. You seem like such a nice guy. So quiet. I've had some bad luck recently – with men, you know – and it's just really nice to meet someone so...so nice.'

Patrick's eyes turned inward as he remembered looking at Jean's body from earlier in the night. Her long, smooth legs barely covered by a short red skirt. Her tight top exposing a slight curve along her hips, flat stomach and large, even breasts. He remembered her downcast eyes which followed his disappointed expression.

Jean had opened up a small mirror and was fussing with her hair. 'Do I look OK?' she said, flustered.

'When did you get it done?' said Patrick flatly.

'What? I mean, sorry?'

'The operation.'

'Oh, the physop? Eighteen, like everyone else. I couldn't wait! A friend of mine got hers done first and I was so jealous. You should have seen her, she looked amazing. So grown up. She was a woman. We were just girls. She didn't look so good with half her hair pulled out, but I'm sure she got that fixed in the touch-up sessions. We were just mucking around.'

'What did you look like before it?'

'Oh, pretty much the same,' said Jean. 'Smaller breasts, smaller hips. You know, to fit in better with other teenagers.'

'So that still wasn't your original body?'

'Of course not! It'd be horrible if you looked different to anyone else. My mum says it scars you for life. I don't want scars!

'So when were you...yourself?'

'Why are we talking about this? Let's say something fun. I know, I'll tell you a joke I heard.'

Patrick looked around the room listlessly. He watched a waitress taking an order a few tables over. Her long, delicate fingers led his eye along her smooth, tanned arm, and up to her symmetrical face. He scrunched his face at her perfection. Nothing wrong. Not a single blemish.

'What's the matter?' said Jean. 'You're not laughing.'

'Hmm?'

Jean followed Patrick's gaze to the waitress who was just finalising the order and walking away. Patrick played over the scene once more in his mind. Just before leaving, a small wink for the older male patron. A little flirting perhaps, to garner a tip. He focussed in on the eye, the blinking eye, and noticed something, something small, there in a moment and gone in a flash. A wrinkle. A hint of a wrinkle more than anything. But it was a start.

'Do you think she's attractive?' said Jean.

'What?' said Patrick, still searching for another sign of imperfection on the fast moving woman.

'The waitress. Is she more attractive than me?'

With a wave of the hand, Patrick tried to dismiss the intrusion of his mind.

'She's really old, you realise. I know men don't care about that stuff any more but I know she's really old. You can tell.'

Not getting a response, Jean said: 'I can change, you know. We get two alteration things each year. I can be anything you want.'

Patrick turned back to Jean. 'No. You can't.'

'I can too! Do you like my breasts? I can make them bigger!' She squeezed them together. 'Or my hair? Do you like brunettes better? That's easy fixed. Ummm...what about my butt? Is it too big? Or too small? I knew it was too small!'

'You don't understand,' said Patrick. He rubbed his eye.

'Oh, you want someone younger. I can go back to my teenage body. Would that be good for you? It could be ready by tomorrow. Well maybe not tomorrow, I don't know if Dr Price works on Saturdays but by the next business day I can look like a little girl. What do you think?'

'Don't be stupid!' said Patrick.

'Sorry,' said Jean, looking down. 'I don't mean to upset you. Do you want to talk about that other stuff? We can talk about it. Yeah, let's. Umm, you wanted to know about my first op. I was thirteen. You get them at twelve but my folks are tight with money.'

'What did you look like before?'

'Ugly. Horrible. You don't wanna know.'

'What colour were your eyes?'

'Like a greyer version of what they are. They try to enhance what you've already got. And smaller – they were much smaller.'

Patrick smiled. 'And your body? Did you have...one leg shorter than the other? Did you have big ears? Any deformities? Birth defects? Did you have anything major that other children laughed at?'

'This is getting a little weird,' said Jean.

Patrick caught a glimpse of the waitress as she pushed through to the kitchen.

The swinging doors rocked open.

A head of hair, tangled and dry.

The swinging doors closed. Then rocked open.

A plump body, bulky and shapeless.

The swinging doors closed. Then rocked open.

Beady eyes looking out.

The swinging doors closed.

Patrick's eyes bulged in excitement, his face lifting. He noticed he was half out of his seat and sat down, a little embarrassed.

'It's not going to work out,' he said to the body sitting opposite. His gaze remained fixed on the door to the kitchen.

Jean looked at him, shocked. 'What? Why? No. I didn't mean that stuff before. I was just...you know, it was a bit weird. But I can listen.'

Still looking at the door, and getting to his feet, Patrick said: 'Here's some money for the meal. Have a good life.'

He sits. He waits. He watches.

He sits on a dirty ledge, skirting the border of illumination from a single light.

He waits in the small alley, the smell of rotting food and faeces overwhelming.

He watches the staff entry door, a searing gaze uninterrupted by occasional movement of a stray cat.

A noise, quiet, becoming louder. Laughter. The door flings open. Disappointment. Not her.

More sitting, more waiting, more watching.

The door opening, quietly, slowly. She. She emerging. Fat. Short. Ugly. Perfect.

He rubs his eye. He races to her. Then stops. Confused. Panting.

She grabs her handbag, holding it tight.

'What do you want?' she shouts.

Scared. Just scared. Relieve tension. Talk.

Silence.

Talk!

'Uh...,' he says.

'Oh gawd,' she says, 'not this shit again. What, you going to rape me?'

'No, I...' His voice trails off.

'Don't got the guts? Is that it?'

'Where did you...how...?' Saliva. Lick it up.

'You want my life story? They all do. Oh, did you think you were alone? Think you're the only fucker who gets a kick out of ugly chicks? Fuck, you're stupider than you look.'

Don't listen to the bitch. Get a grip.

'Why?' He cleared his throat. 'Why haven't you had the operation?'

'Why?' she said. 'Why do you think? Coz I'm poor? Coz I ain't no doll? Coz I'm fucked up and have emotional problems?' She twirled her hand around her head.

Not making sense. Stay calm. Stay cool.

'Coz it's convenient?' she said.

Look up. Stop looking down. Sign of weakness.

'I'm not here to...' he says, and stops. Flat feet. Lumpy legs. Varicose veins. Pruriently perfect.

'Fuck this, I'm going,' she says.

No. Stop her.

He grabs her arm. She flails. He pulls her down. Thud. Scratches. Pain.

Blurry. So blurry.

Tearing. Lot's of tearing. And ripping.

Screams. Mumbled. Muffled. Stupid bitch. Shut up. Bang. Bang. Louder. Bang! Bang! Squelch.

Blurry. Dark. Pain. Searing pain. Clutch head. Pain.

Stupid bitch. Stupid bitch.