The Urban Goddess

As she lit her cigarette and stared into the darkness, she realised she was, quite simply, not in love with him. A heavy, possessive hand stretched out across her waist, enveloping her protectively. The room smelled like sex and cigarettes. His breathing became slower and deeper, and she realised he was falling into deep sleep before he whispered, “I love you”. He did not know he said that, had not realised it fell out of his mouth before drifting off into an undisturbed, satisfied slumber as a million thoughts ran through her mind.


Here she was, 32, successful, good looking and still trying to find the one, willing herself to fall in love and failing desperately. They had been dating for two months now, introduced to each other by a mutual friend who thought she desperately needed to meet someone. Obviously, being single was a sin.

Cynically, she thought that he was nice enough, made enough money – although there was the distinct possibility that she made more than him. He seemed to be able to carry on a decent enough conversation and he did not bore her to death. A chartered accountant; somewhat successful, with his own apartment and mortgage. He came from good stock, she had been told. Of course he did, everyone around here came from good stock.

He was merely a means to an end, as far as she was concerned. He existed only to scratch an itch she had – sexual satisfaction. She had gone through so many men over the past two years that she could no longer remember their names, let alone their faces. As she tried to shift under the weight of his hand, she stared at his handsome face, willing him to wake up and face her rejection. He did not make her blood boil. He did not fill her with passion; he did not push her buttons. He was safe, easy to deal with. There was no way he could outwit her, no way could he deal with her sophistication, his mind incapable of fathoming her inner workings. Though, to his credit, this one lasted longer than most, if only because she allowed it.

Her married friends told her she was not putting herself out there, kept claiming that she was not giving as much as she was taking. They called her selfish. They felt she did not understand the meaning of commitment. They found her dishonest, unable to accept the reality of her situation. They saw through her and made no attempt to help her. She was fast becoming one those women men feared. The kind that attracted the best ones, got them to fall in love with while she works out “what she really wants” only to dump them when they have fallen hard. She was, proverbially, the new-age man-eater.

Sexy, gorgeous, financially fortunate, articulate, intelligent and worst of all, confused – a recipe for disaster. A walking cliché, she is perfectly manicured and well-read. The epitome of perfection, yet annoyingly dependant on everyone else. She looked to her married friends for advice and turned to her single friends for absolving speeches. She claimed she was looking for love, yet everyone who knew her understood that she only wanted to satisfy physical needs. She claimed that she tried hard, yet the world did not seem to understand her.



As he slept, she attempted to untangle herself from his spent body. He grunted a little, and began to snore softly in response to the movement. She crept quietly away from the bed, picking up her shoes and clothes and moved to the kitchen. There, she dressed and found a scrap of paper and a pen. She scribbled out, “I’m sorry. It’s over.” She signed off and headed for the door.

She was not sorry it was over. Relieved, the imaginary 300-pound wrestler in her head screamed, “NEXT!” She walked away, not quite caring if he was going to be hurt by her curt farewell.

As she waited for the lift to reach his penthouse, she began to curse herself for being a right royal idiot. Where was she going with all this? She did not question how many men she had left in her wake of self-destruction. Feeling rather sorry for herself, she decided she would go home and dive into a quart of expensive ice cream. In the morning she would call her single friends, and they will gather to swap murder-stories. They will trash out their exploits, find faults with the men they were supposed to be seeing, make excuses for themselves and absolve each other’s sins over a cup of coffee and breakfast. Secretly unhappy, openly jubilant, constantly whining about her hunt for happiness and then celebrating the single women of the world, fighting the tyranny of normality.

Such is the life of the urban goddess. Another man’s woes are pale in comparison to her plight. Perhaps we should feel sorry for her. Perhaps she should not exist. We can all sleep sound tonight.