Backstreet abortions are common place,” I tell the prude’s wife.
“I suppose you’d be experienced in that sort of thing,” she says condescendingly.
I refuse you let her rattle me.
“All this can end today, ma’am. You will never have to hear of me or from me, ever again,” I say.
There is silence for a while as she weighs things in her mind. Pay this slut Sh2m or have her and her bastard pester you for years to come.
The waiter brings the bill and I pay it, giving him a generous tip. I have observed that rich people do not do this. Those that have the least are the ones that tend to give the most. And I’m not going to look cheap with this rich bitch sitting here.
Generous tipping is probably why poor people like me remain poor: We spend it all trying to look rich! I once saw the daughter of a presidential candidate count coins so as to pay the exact amount to a waiter. This woman was not going to part with a cent. The irony was that our breakfast meeting was to discuss ways in which we would get more votes for her father. Start with the guy in front of you, genius!
“Ok. I’ll give you the money. But this needs to happen today,” the prude’s wife says, jolting me back to the present.
What? She’s actually fallen for it? This is karma. The universe is giving back to me after my generous tip. My heart starts racing. I ensure that I don’t demonstrate any emotion but I’m extremely relieved. Will she call the prude? I hope not.
“We can go together,” I say, hoping to reduce the chances of them conversing if I’m with her.
“As much as this sort of thing is not something I want to associate with, I don’t trust you. I want to make sure you WILL terminate,” she says.
“So, money first?” I ask.
She nods. We travel to the bank together. She doesn’t call the prude. I wonder if it gives her a sense of power to clean up his mess without asking for his input. Men are interesting creatures. This is a beautiful woman. Rich, too. Why cheat on her? Why risk throwing away your marriage? She puts in an RTGS request and the bank starts wiring the funds into my account.
“What’s the purpose of this payment?” the teller asks.
We both look at each other, a little at a loss. Big Brother is always watching.
“Ghost-writing services. She’s writing a book and I’m a journalist,” I say.
The teller puts the information on the form.
“You should receive the funds tomorrow,” she says.
We leave the bank and head to the hospital. It’s about fifteen minutes away and we ride in silence. There’s nothing to converse about. It’s not like we can make small talk and discuss the weather. I’m relieved when we finally pull into the hospital and make our way to the doctor’s pavilion. I fill in a form and after a brief wait, a doctor ushers us into his office.
“How many weeks?” he asks.
The prude’s wife is sitting right there, so I have to lie to fit in with the timelines of when I slept with her husband. This will be a problem, as I’m yet to find out.