Greg’s Wife

The first time I met Emy was at a conference in Ritz where I was asked to play the piano.  Greg told me before that his wife works in mass media, and I imagined a tall and skinny bitch in high heels with a perfectly firm breast and erect nipples showing through the top. 
Well, she was tall. That’s it. Tired, heavy set, stooped, middle aged, and entirely lifeless. I recognized her by the Greg’s last name on her badge and the same sapphire necklace and earrings set that both of us wore that evening. Greg did not seem to be original when choosing jewelry for his spouse and the lover. I imagined him looking for the special offer: Buy one for your wife, get another one 50% off for your mistress. It was funny, I laughed.
I approached Emy and complimented on her shoes. She lit up almost immediately and praised my piano performance.
          Where did you learn to play the piano?
          My parents taught me when I was little
          Oh, really? I wish my boys would do something like that, but their dad does not think it’s a good idea
          Wow, sounds like their dad is in charge
          Of course, he is! Boys should be into sports. He thinks piano lessons are too girlie.
          And what do you think?
 –          Me? It really does not matter…
Greg seemed to suck all her life energy. There was no enthusiasm about her. Unfit body in a business attire and a dull face. She was entirely frozen. Her needs and wants were buried under marketing strategies, advertising techniques, and sales methods. Even conversing about the kids did not seem to defreeze her.
Greg stopped trying to control me after I threw a plate with a chocolate cheesecake into his TV. I survived his yelling. Life is way too short not to live, not to feel, not to express myself.     
I left Ritz and Emy relieved that I am single and not willing to dive into the traditional monogamous crap that people call “serious relations”.
Emy called me later with the invitation to play Chopin at the presentation of her new book the following week.  

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