Mortals can be so annoying. This I know as well as anyone. – I've called you fifty times, but you ignore me!
I smiled mockingly.
Kurt. That mortal thought he was my boyfriend after just one night with me. I'd been bored that Friday, so I'd decided to have some fun, that's all. He was good in bed, and the coldness of my body even appealed to him. On Sunday I invited him over to my place and that visit too ended up being a hot night. Monday morning, I shoved him out the door and threw his clothes out the window. But, what a misfortune, he seems to have fallen head over heels in love with me! And I, such a fool, gave him my number… How ridiculous!
And why do all these mortals, whom I use only for my physical needs and entertainment, all fall in love with me and call me like crazy? Stalking me at the penthouse where my flat is, stalking me at work. Over the past four years, I've become a well-known photographer in Canada and the US, and these types make me uncomfortable and have difficult conversations with clients. "Who's the guy hanging around here? Did he come to you? You know the rules – no privacy during shooting, etc." And you can't explain to people that all these idiots are there to have a relationship with me! Yeah, what's the big deal, what relationship? Idiots, I'm just playing with them, and when I've played with them, I get rid of the old toys. Should I kill them? No, I don't want to waste my precious time on that.
They all admire me and call me a beautiful, unearthly, sexy devil they're willing to go to Hell for. My cool white skin attracts them like a magnet, they are ready to kiss my feet, to be my slaves. But the thing is, I don't care about them. Their admiration and love for me makes me laugh. Mortals demand my love! Demand that I become "constant" and not act "like an expensive whore". Ha! They dare to hope for my reciprocity. I never promise reciprocity, but I give honest and frank warning that I am looking for a one-night stand. I don't give an ounce of hope.
This Kurt, a twenty-five year old boy I met in a nightclub, thought I should be with him now. He waited for me right outside the entrance to the penthouse and blocked my way to the door with his stupid arrogance. Naive. But I was willing to play with him a little.
– Look, boy, forget my number and find yourself a nice, model girl. I suggest you look in the library-there are plenty of them," I replied to his passionate accusation with a laugh.
– You can't just forget me! – Kurt hooked his fingers into my forearm. – I can't think of anyone, anything, but you!
– How romantic! But boy, you're so stupid," I said in an affectionate tone, still letting him touch me.
– Stop calling me boy!
Passersby stared at this scene of jealousy with rapt attention and smiled.
Kurt was furious. I was enjoying this little game, but I was still a little tired of his voice and mannerisms.
– If I ever see you here again, boy, you're in trouble, okay? – I said insistently, wanting to get rid of him at last. – I'll call the police and I'll get the court to ban you from coming within a mile of me.
By the way, there's already a loser like that. Woody. DJ at Toronto's biggest nightclub. He stalked me for two months, but I successfully and easily won my case in court, and the lovesick idiot had to leave town. And with a tarnished reputation.
– Don't act like a whore!" Kurt suddenly shouted loudly.
That phrase made me laugh out loud. There it was! Once again!
– Miss Mroczek? – Fred came out of the massive wooden door to the penthouse.
Fred is my eternal saviour. The doorman. A six-foot-two big man who's used to chasing away pesky admirers. He's used to these scenes and to the fact that I, quite often, turn up at home with another man who disappears the very next morning. I suspect he's in love with me.
