Joanne Bergson 1.01

"It will be electronically possible for him to tune into any specific female he wants to and follow in detail her every movement. The females will kindly, obligingly consent to this, as it won't hurt them in the slightest and it is a marvelously kind and humane way to treat their unfortunate, handicapped fellow beings."

--Valerie Solanas, SCUM Manifesto (1968)


Joanne Bergson could've just ordered her cappuccino to-go that clear-skied, Summer Monday morning. It didn’t even matter that three bus stops away, a self-made millionaire had been waiting for her to join him for breakfast at one of the city’s most sought-after upscale restaurant. She was determined at all costs to enjoy herself and indulge her fancies. As her name was nervously called by a teenaged boy with a face so full of acne, you could run a butter knife across his face and cover both halves of a poppy seed bagel, she snatched fifty euros from her minute designer purse and passed it to him as both their fingers met over the countertop. If it wasn’t because she hurried her drink to her table, the boy would’ve probably soiled his underpants with semen.

“Do you still want that newspaper?” She asked the old man in plaid slacks, knit vest and worn-down beret.

“Not at all, dear. Have a beautiful day!” He replied with a warm smile.

“You’re very kind, Sir.” She remarked as the old man placed the newspaper on her table, tapping it with his forefinger.

“And you’re very welcome.” Their eyes met for a few seconds, and he was on his way, brushing a few breadcrumbs off his chest quite routinely, as if remembering his mother inspecting his uniform by the end of the school day.

Ankles crossed, so that her miniskirt wouldn’t give away the gates to her Secret Garden, she dived straight to the horoscope section. Her auburn hair, flawlessly tied up in a bun, made her ears a delicacy to behold. A trip down her neckline would entrance anyone close enough to smell that cologne imported from the Near East. A small discrete cross fashioned out of gold hung over her clavicles, barely kissing the cleavage of her translucent salmon pink blouse, which only made her royal blue lace brassiere teasingly evident. She glanced at her diamond-studded wristwatch, almost distracted by her own perfectly executed manicure that mirrored the color of the sky, which imposed itself majestically over browning leaves of the trees across the street. The image, slightly distorted as result of its traversing through the glass of those ancient windows, bathed her whole body, making her pale skin glow in a supernatural way. “He must be going crazy by now,” she thought as she gracefully reached for her cup, blowing off a little steam through the foamy surface of its contents before wetting her rosy lips in it.

© 2022 G. Dávila 

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