Chapter 33 Chapter 32: Dinner with Silver
“Two dress suits, three ball gowns, matching handbags, jewellery fit for a princess, and five pairs of matching heels,” Marcel declared, consulting the list he´d conjured in his mind. He looked me up and down with a critical but fond eye. “And you can walk in heels, my darling, I can tell. You have the posture for it.”
“Yes,” I smirked, feeling a genuine, unburdened smile spread across my face for the first time that day. “Thank you so much, Marcel. For everything.”
“It will be a trying mission worthy of a saint,” he said with a theatrical sigh, “but the princess will be ready for the ball.” He laughed, a warm, infectious sound that made the other assistants smile. “All your things will be delivered to your address as requested on Friday morning.” I impulsively leaned forward, kissed their powdered cheek, and hugged him goodbye, surrounded by the scent of iris and ambition. “Thank you for your kindness,” I whispered, and I meant it more than they could know.
I left Marcel’s boutique on a high, the luxurious atmosphere clinging to me like a protective shield. Suddenly, the morning’s horrors felt distant, manageable. The future, with its beautiful clothes and dangerous mission, felt glittering and real. Everything felt like it was going to be okay.
I looked down at my com: 15:45. The bubble of euphoria slightly deflated. I had hoped I could actually go home, take a waterdrop, and change out of my disgusting jogging clothes before my date with Silver. But there was no time. The next hopper that would take me to her side of town was due in twenty minutes. If I caught it, I’d get there twenty-five minutes early. A little awkward, but maybe not so bad. I could wait at the bar, calm my nerves.
Twenty minutes is maybe enough time to at least freshen up, I thought desperately, my eyes scanning the pristine street for a public toilet. I found one, but the door was locked, a small, dusty "Out of Order" sign taped to it.
Panic began to prickle at the edges of my good mood. I spotted a nearby café and hurried in, making a beeline for the back. A sign on a narrow door read: Toilets for Guests Only. My heart sank. I diverted to the counter, ordered the cheapest drink on the menu, a bitter leaf tea I had no intention of drinking, slapped down some money, and then fled to the bathroom.
The moment I saw myself in the mirror, my heart plummeted. I was a mess. My hair was a wild, sweat-tangled nest. My face was still flushed and blotchy. The grey jogging top had dark, damp patches under the arms. I tried to brush my hair with my fingers, but it was a futile battle. I soaked paper towels in cold water and dabbed at my armpits, at my neck, but it did little more than spread the dampness. It was a losing battle against the grime and exhaustion of the day.
When I had done all, I thought could be done, which was essentially nothing, I ran back out into the street, my leaf forgotten on the café counter. I arrived at the hopper stop just in time to see my ride pulling away, its red taillights disappearing into the traffic.
The next one wouldn’t be here for thirty minutes. That would get me there five minutes late.
The high I’d been on vanished, popped like a balloon. The glorious future Marcel had painted was replaced by the immediate, humiliating present. I looked like shit, I smelled, and now I was going to be late for the one person I truly wanted to see. The weight of it all, the clinic, the run, the pressure, crashed down on me at once. I stumbled back against the cold brick wall of a building, slid down to the pavement, buried my face in my hands, and cried, the tears finally breaking through the dam of the day.
I sat there on the kerb until my hopper arrived.
My spirit began to lift from the darkness I felt with every block the hopper covered. The crushing despair I'd felt at the stop slowly gave way to a flickering, nervous anticipation. The closer I got to my end stop, the closer I was to the café, and to Silver. The grimy window of the hopper seemed to filter the city, making the approaching neighbourhood glow with a promise of warmth and acceptance.
When the hopper finally hissed to a halt, I practically launched myself out the doors, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I dodged across the street, my worn trainers slapping against the pavement, and pushed open the door to the café.
The air that hit me was thick with the rich, spicy scent of Ovum herbs and roasted kafka. The café was a jewel of Ovum culture, every detail meticulously curated. Intricate tapestries depicting mythical Ovum landscapes hung on the walls, interspersed with ceramic masks and polished wooden carvings. The low lighting came from lanterns shaped like exotic flowers, casting a warm, intimate glow over the handful of tables.
And there she was.
Silver sat in a corner booth, half-hidden in shadow but seeming to draw all the light in the room toward her. She wore a beautiful, simple dress of a deep, vin red that made her skin glow. She was staring into a steaming cup, one finger tracing its rim, and she looked like a goddess waiting in a temple, serene and utterly captivating. The sight of her, so perfect and composed, made my own attire, the sweat-stained, shabby jogging clothes, feel like a grotesque costume. I suddenly felt like a street urchin who had stumbled into a royal court, painfully aware of every stain and every frayed thread.
I walked over to her, my pulse thrumming in my ears. “Silver,” I said, her name melting off my tongue like a sweet, long-awaited confession.
She raised her head, and a brilliant, genuine smile lit up her face at the sight of me. But then her expression shifted. Her eyes did a quick, involuntary scan from my messy hair down to my stained jogging bottoms, and the smile faltered into a look of confused surprise.
“I… I thought this was a real date,” she said, her voice soft but laced with a hint of disappointment as she gestured vaguely at my clothes.
The words stung. “I know,” I rushed out, my cheeks burning. “I’m really sorry. Please forgive me. My day, well… I wanted this evening to be perfect, too. But my day… it just got in the way.” I finished lamely, the understatement feeling colossal. “I’m so sorry.”
Then, something wonderful happened. Her expression softened, the initial shock replaced by a deep, loving smile that reached her eyes. “It’s O.K.,” she said, her voice warm and sure. “Really, it is. I’m just happy to see you. Even though you are late.” She added the last part with a playful glint.
I slid into the booth opposite her, the weight of the day momentarily lifting. “I know. I am sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she said with an even warmer smile, reaching across the table to briefly squeeze my hand. “Just stop saying sorry so we can order. I am famished.”
As if on cue, a waiter glided over. “Would you like something to drink while you look at the menu?”
I felt the crisp notes my father had loaned me burning a hole in my pocket. A wave of determination washed over me. I wanted to erase my lateness, my appearance, all of it. I wanted to give her the perfect night she deserved.
“The best bottle of vin you have, thank you,” I said, my voice surprisingly firm.
He nodded and left. I turned back to Silver, the enormity of the past two days pressing down on me. “There’s just so much that’s happened since we last saw each other, I don’t even know where to begin.”
A mischievous grin played on her lips. She ducked down under the table, rustling around in a large bag, and came back up with a substantial gift wrapped in beautiful flower-printed paper and adorned with a large, perfect red ribbon.
“But I know how it will end,” she said, her eyes sparkling with devilish excitement. “This is for you.” She pushed the gift across the table. “It’s to celebrate your new job. And a little… payback.” She laughed, her face flushing a delightful shade of crimson.
I took the heavy, awkwardly shaped box. “Thank you,” I said, completely thrown, my mind racing through polite possibilities, a scarf, a book, a fancy pen.
“Well, open it!” she smirked, leaning forward eagerly.
Feeling all eyes in the cozy café on me, I carefully pulled the ribbon and tore back the paper to reveal a plain cardboard box. I lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled on white tissue paper, was a huge, thick, veined dildo, starkly realistic, attached to a complex-looking black harness.
“I am going to pay you back for last time,” she laughed heartily, her voice a little too loud in the quiet restaurant.
My jaw dropped. It was so big. So blatant. My brain short-circuited. Just as I was staring, speechless, the waiter returned with the bottle of vin. My reflexes kicked in; I slammed the cardboard box shut with a loud thud, my face erupting into a furnace of embarrassment. The waiter, impeccably professional, began the ritual of presenting the cork and pouring the vin, his face a perfect mask of neutrality as I sat there, rigid, clutching the box of scandalous payback on my lap.
We didn't just order a meal; we embarked on a culinary adventure. Pointing at the menu, we decided to try a little of everything, a spontaneous decision that resulted in a table crowded with small, vibrant plates. We dined like kings, or perhaps like explorers, sharing each new taste, the spicy stews, the flaky pastries filled with Savory meats, the strange, sweet desserts. It was a feast for the senses, a celebration in itself.
Between bites, the story of the last few days came tumbling out of me. It was a torrent of words, a chaotic jumble of the clinic's cold horror, the frantic run through the city, the intimidating opulence of Lord Vincent's world, and the divine intervention of Marcel. I kept having to double back, "Wait, no, I forgot to mention-" inserting a crucial detail about the straps on the examination table or the exact shade of Marcel's pink suit. My narrative was as messy and overwhelming as the experiences themselves.
But Silver listened. She didn't just hear me; she absorbed it all, her eyes wide with shared excitement at the opportunity and a protective, simmering anger at the violation. She was the perfect audience, gasping in the right places, nodding with understanding, and always offering a helping idea or a needed nudge that helped me make sense of my own feelings. "So, what you're saying is," she'd interject, "that bastard at the clinic tried to make you small, and then you ran straight into a world that's going to make you huge." Her reframing was a gift, turning my panic into purpose.
As the evening deepened, the café around us buzzing with soft conversation, I felt the last of the day's tension melt away. This was the evening I had hoped for. Here, with this magnificent, strong Polli, I felt whole. We were a perfect fit, our conversations flowing as easily as the vine, our silences comfortable and deep.
By seven-thirty, we were full, a little merry from the vine, and wrapped in a warm, contented glow. The plates were cleared, leaving only the two of us in the lantern light. Silver reached across the table and placed her hands on mine, her touch sending a familiar, electric calm through me. Her eyes held mine, warm and sure.
"Let's go home to my place," she said, her voice a low, inviting murmur that was both a question and a statement. It was an invitation to extend this perfect bubble of peace, to leave the public world behind and retreat into our own private sanctuary.