NOVEMBER 11, 2002
MY SUMMER WITH THE MOVIE STAR
CHAPTER 18, (Cont.)
I was out of bed first. I still don't sleep well away from home, not my usual twelve hours straight when it's the weekend. I washed up thoroughly, instead of showering, because I was in a big hurry to get out in the kitchen, and put the coffee on for them, and, maybe, set the little table on the patio for breakfast, and bring in the paper. All of which I did, in no time, zipping around like I owned the place.
After everything was arranged, and I had even picked a few flowers for the glass-topped table, I sat down for a quiet cup of coffee. I had on my good white cotton shorts, and one of my silk Ezra blouses, and bare feet. The sun felt super on my legs, and I was really enjoying myself out there, all alone by the blue pool, sipping my coffee, and turning the pages of the newspaper, like the lady of the manor.
Just like that, I slipped into the Old Sylvia. It was a whole new fantasy, created right out of my surroundings, as all the best ones are.
I am Sylvia Dormirhouse, a terribly rich, young widow whose husband has left her everything, including the house, the yacht, the place at Malibu, and all the paintings and priceless sculpture by Marini. I have on smart-looking tinted reading glasses, and maybe I'm smoking a cigarette or two because I am nervous, and wondering what I'm going to do with my life now that my husband is gone, and I have all the money.
Should I close up the big house, and just retreat to Malibu and think it through? I can hear the new gardener, my husband employed just before he died, clipping hedges somewhere on the vast estate, far, far away from where I'm sitting. The sun is warm and forgiving on my back, and I decide to take a little sunbath. I look around carefully to be certain the gardener is somewhere else on the next ten acres, and then I take off my blouse and shorts. Since this is an Original Fantasy by Sylvia, I am not wearing a bra. I wouldn't have a bra in the house. I have these full, firm breasts which will never require a bra, and which will never break down and sag, until I am too old to give a damn. I simply lie down on my own soft, expensive grass by the pool, with the society section of the paper over my face to keep out the sun.
Suddenly, a shadow falls across the paper, and I realize I haven't heard any clipping sounds lately. I slowly remove the paper, and there is the gardener towering over me. The fantasy stops here for a minute, like all the new ones do, while I decide what nationality the gardener is going to be. It's important because you can spice up a dull fantasy with different nationalities. Most gardeners are Japanese, which isn't my cup of tea (ha!) because they are all too short for me. A white gardener would have to be an old man, else why has he settled for clipping hedges for a living? So maybe this new gardener is a Mexican. That's it. He is a broad-shouldered wetback with beautiful white teeth and shiny black hair, who my husband managed to slip across the border, just before he passed away. And he's been clipping the hedge with a machete, which now glints in the sun as he holds it loosely by his side, forgotten, washed out of his mind by the sight of me, nude with only the paper over my head. He is perspiring, and his shirt is all wet in front. His eyes run over my body, and I make no attempt to shield it from his gaze. I am very composed and collected in almost any situation, because I know that I am a beautiful woman, and now that my husband is dead, I also have a potful. The gardener never says a word, only stares.
But I say something: I say, "I'm sorry, but you must shower first. You will find clean towels in the pool house. When you're all washed up, come back here, and perhaps we can discuss it."
Probably the shower business crept into the script because I felt guilty about not taking one myself that morning.
(To be Continued)
