The Lioness

The lioness sits amidst the shadows, unobserved. The tall, yellow grass passes over her head. She waits and watches, patiently picking out her prey.

I took a sip of my martini, the familiar scent of alcohol wafted through the air. The scent of sweat and perfume, mixed with the booming music and flashing lights released adrenaline through my body. A good night for a hunt, I thought.

I watch as he puts down his drink tentatively, as if unsure as to whether he should be drinking this much. I catch his eye and raise an eyebrow. A silent toast across the expanse of the bar and my glass is drained. He follows my lead, after a moment of pause.

I nodded towards the dance floor. Let’s dance.

The lioness locks in on her target. The tall, yellow grass shivers apprehensively in the wind. She watches and calculates her moves. Patience is virtue.

He bounced awkwardly towards me across the floor, stopping a little behind where I was.

The corner of my mouth quirked up as I looked back. There he stands, his abnormally long arms hanging awkwardly beside his pale, lanky form. His knobby knees were glued tightly together, and made no further indication of movement. Turning away, I rolled my eyes. He could have at least come a little closer, it would have made my job abundantly easier. But then again, I liked a challenge. Hips swaying from side to side, I let the music carry my body away. I wished I could stay in this moment. In the world of music and disco, of alcohol and carelessness. But I knew that when the morning came, well, I liked to not think of the morning. I took a step back, half a meter should do the trick, and felt his form bump into mine. He touched my arm with the lightness of a feather. His icy fingers trembling slightly against the warmth of my skin. It isn’t as if I bite, I thought. Well… Snap out of it.

I felt sorry for the guy. I really did. I’m sorry, I thought.

His heartbeat drummed into my ears as I looked up at those beautiful blue eyes. Well, I try to imagine them to be blue, anyway. It was much more interesting that way.

Lord forgive me.

The lioness knows that she must succeed. Her cubs await her below the swaying yellow grass. But she isn’t worried, for she knows the tricks of her prey like the tip of her tail.

I looked him up and down, just a flicker of the lashes. Men like him like being intimidated. I know because I’ve played this game before. People think I chose this life, and by people, I mean my victims. But I didn’t choose the game, for it found me in the darkest of times. It is a kind of addiction, you could say. Where some days, the lines of necessity blur with those of greed. Wants and needs collide into one. But who could say when the things we needed to survive turn into only extra commodities? And again, who could say when the things we want for luxury turn into necessities? Some days I wonder if it really was the money I was after, or simply the feeling it bought me. In a life of helplessness, perhaps I simply wanted, for once, to be the lioness, the queen of the Sahara.

He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. Or perhaps the music simply overwhelmed his voice.

His hand hovers over my waist. But soon, it shrinks back into its safe, comforting sleeve.

This one was more difficult than usual.

I smiled. Challenge accepted.

Patterns are easy for the lioness to see. Although for the prey, it may well be their first chase, for the lioness, it was only one of thousands.

It’s here that I begin to paint.

The piece, once an original, now resembled that of a postmodern print. I liked to think of it as an Andy Warhol of sorts. The ink on the stamp, so barely dry, rejuvenates itself on another blank, untarnished page.

I turn slowly away from him, the execution of each insignificant step, each tiny stroke of the brush, must be perfect. In my painting, I see his eyes trailing after me. The piercing blue creeping down the length of my back. I arch it, only slightly, my arms stretched out behind me. One foot in front of the other, a quarter of a mile per hour, I slowly walk away.

The chase through the grasslands fills the lioness with a quivering thrill. But there is one thing she cannot control, for no matter how perfect her plan, she cannot know which way the deer will go.

Here I’d painted a story. An intricate one, I would say, filled with layers of complexion. To him, it was the story of the nerd that got the cheerleader, the side character that got the main, but to me, it was the story of the golden seductress, and her nameless victim.

As I walked away, I held my breath.

The artist labours hard, and yet it was up to the viewers to decide her work’s worth.

Time slowed as the anticipation built, but I kept my head forward, each step as confident as the last.

When you lead a horse you must look forwards and be confident, my mother had once told me, otherwise, no matter how hard you pull, the horse will not come.

There were rooms at the back of the club. I went to the one marked 17 and waited.

Cutting through the swift, yellow grass, they run at the speed of light, neither giving leeway to the other. In a crucial moment of judgement, the deer trips on the snag of an insignificant branch. The lioness pounces, and the deer is no more.

Around the corner he appeared, seeming to move more confidently than before. I smile at him, head tilted slightly, the slit in my dress sweeping over the length of my leg.

I open the door behind me, he follows, a newfound hunger in his eyes.

As he trails me inside and they grab him. Barely a scuffle or a scratch and he was dragged away.

I pitied him, really.

I wondered if he had had a family, children. Let’s be honest, he probably did.

Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.

But nature was a vicious race. The survival of one meant the sacrifice of another. My children for the price of his. My sanity for the price of his.

I kissed the glistening silver cross around my neck. As I bowed my head in prayer.

The lioness looks down at her prize. The sweet scent of blood fills her nostrils with delight. She drags the carcass home, a feast for her precious cubs.

“Good job today.” The man in black hands me a fresh wad of notes, thicker than the size of my forearm.

“See you next week.” I reply.