Ophelia, the soap pt. I

While sitting at the smallest pub in town at any given night, you can expect to witness all sorts of crazy things happen. I mean, Louis is a guy who has a letter from the British Government apologizing for the behavior of some blokes hanging proud in his wall.

Today I met a rather interesting character, I'll call her Ophelia. As I went in, she sat quietly at the end of the bar sipping her drink and relaxing from a likely hard weekend.

I had promised to make caipirinhas for the staff there, so I was rushed behind the counter pretty much has I laid my bag down. I made my best to batter, mix and pour the drinks and she started looking, first sideways then just glaring lustfully at the sugar and lime half filled glasses.

I had just finished making my second glass when she went ahead and invited herself to be customer number three. She looked straight at me and said
"If the loveliest bartender in town would be so kind ...". Thick londoner accent, ginger lips and graceful gesture included for free.
Annie slid the caipira she was holding and stared at Ophelia who took the glass and caressed the straws for a second. Not being the most graceful of dutch girls, Annie transpires raw sexuality and always seems like she knows what she's doing. Andrew on the other hand, an atypical english charmer with an eye for fun and a hand for game, leaned back and enjoyed his own toughs for a while.

I made quick toast to airport security guards who seem afraid to loose their jobs when someone else is doing a better job at body checking (which, incidentally no one got so I was the only one laughing) and the four of us moved a bit closer so we could chat. Ophelia didn't seem bothered by the attention she was getting from what I could tell, although I was busy choosing what songs would play nice with my mood for the night. Morrissey, Oasis, Depeche and just a little Nina Simone would do the trick.

the origami is like my signature

An uncomfortable silence filled our little corner table when Annie asked what Ophelia did for a living. Calmly, she inhaled, put her glass down and said without even a touch of irony in her voice: "I'm a high-class prostitute." then added "On holiday!"
I laughed my head of, Annie was shocked and Andrew's eyes went wide as his hands reached for the girl's long, fit legs. He uttered "Are you for real?"
"Andy, put your wallet down, she's just telling us to buzzer off, and she's got a great sense of humor by the way" I said.
"No. If I was telling you off, I'd say something like : Yes your wife doesn't understand you, your mistress looks like your mother but you'll still have to pay if you want to keep looking at me" Said her.

I drank some more, tried hard to remember why I was in a pub to begin with and left this unlikely trio to them selfs for a bit. I went for some cigarets and fresh air. I really did, so I can't tell you what the conversation went like. When I got back there where hands, legs, cleavages and a whole lot of old dirty bastards staring at the corner table. Nothing too shameful, although the elephant in the room had little space to breath, but hey, this is amsterdam. Sex is not a tabu.

I tried to reach for my bag so I could leave, but Ophelia grabbed me, and not by the arm, and shouted "This is all your fault you know? So don't even think about leaving before me". I sat. Lit another cigie and listened to some connoisseur comments about size, width and leverage. Then about breasts, tongues and asses. The charming english man did his best to entertain the notion that he could go home with both the girls, Annie couldn't get her hands off the delightful stranger, who on the other hand seemed ever more comfortable as she steered the conversation to familiar territories.

What happened next stays where and with whom it happened. I went home alone.

"with love (signature)" alcoholics are never boring