Abby

What would drive a woman to do things that a woman is not expected to do? What would drive any person to do things that nobody would ever even think of? What if there’s no rational reason? What if it was just something they thought of doing at that time? How can you determine the logic of the action then? Can you say that this person has a disorder, a disease or a dysfunction? But isn’t normalcy all a state of mind? That what you deem normal is factual and what everyone else thinks and does is pure insanity.
 

Who decides what is normal and what isn’t? Who can truly judge a person? Who has the capacity and authority to determine at what level of health your mental state is in? Surely not the pieces of parchment framed on the wall with all its beautiful calligraphy and gold leaf seal. And surely not the white coats with perfect creases and name tags pinned so precisely. Who then? Who has the all encompassing authority to make these labels and stick them with some new age space glue that will take another cosmos exploding to take them off? 

There was a story of a woman that had her lot in life and made do with it. She was a prostitute – plain and simple. She sold her body, her time and she also sold fantasies that quiet little geek boys jack off to at night when their parents are fast asleep in the room above them. She wasn’t like any prostitute though. Nope, she wasn’t garden variety (not that I know how to define garden variety prostitution). She wouldn’t seduce you; she wouldn’t laugh at your stupid jokes or flirt with you. She would just offer it straight forward on the table. “If you want to fuck me, just fuck me.” And she even said it in this very distinct accent that was halfway between cute and heartbreaking. Maybe that’s her appeal – that she can break your heart and take away the guilt just as fast. 

She was both an oddity and a magnificent museum piece. Spoken about in hushed tones when she had her back turned, stared at with huge disbelieving eyes and confronted so callously, she took everything in the same passion (or maybe disinterest or gratuitous disdain, I can’t say) and responded with the same exact statement each time. “I don’t care”. Now, that line, she says with perfect haughtiness and a snobby American accent. It’s as if she was schooled in a private Catholic school in the Upper East Side. 

Abby – that’s the name she gave them. Some would call her Abigail and if you were really really good to her, she’ll let you call her any name you want. Years after this, no one would ever remember her name. Not that it mattered. It was not her real name anyway. But I remember, I remember her very well. She caught me in her spell and the funny thing was she wasn’t even trying.