A Small House called Emmah

Model: Ellen Mahlangu

I let myself in when I arrived at Emma’s flat. She had left her keys under the cushions on the swing chairs on the balcony: The same cushions, on the same swing that had rocked us to sleep under the moonlight on many nights. The janitor had complained too many times about the empty wine bottles on the balcony. The empty potato chips packets too.

I had phoned well in advance to tell her I was coming: That’s what you do with small houses. She had told me she had a hair appointment she could not miss. She was probably lying, but how she ran her life was really none of my business: I was committed elsewhere; I could not expect her to be committed to me.

                Her flat was on the fourth floor; the highest floor on a neat medium sized building in a quiet neighbourhood. The double lounge windows gave a nice view of the street outside. Jacaranda trees were a given in such a neighbourhood. Not really upmarket by any standards, but respectable enough. The streets were strewn with the purple jacaranda flowers. Pamela, who stayed in the flat next to Emma’s was standing on the street corner. She had on a daringly short, purple dress and in her hand she had a green, tiny purse. The red high heels gave me a lesson in what they call colour blocking. She got into a black executive looking car and was gone.

                I did not hear Emma come in. I just felt her arms enfold me. I turned around and she stepped back a few steps to let me have a look at her. She had nothing on but a red chiffon piece of cloth wrapped around her mid section. I deeply inhaled and knew I would have problems pulling myself away from her when the time came for me to leave.

“Have you been here long?” She asked with a motherly look of concern on her face.

“Not really, I was just enjoying the view from up here.”

“I got us some takeaways – Are you staying?”

“You know I can’t stay the night. We have gone through this several times. I am married and happily so”.

She walked over to the window and for a moment or two gazed outsized.

“Do you love me?”

“What kind of question is that? You know I love you.”

“I mean, do you really love me?”

“What do you want from me Emmah?”

“Some seriousness would be nice. A certain level of commitment at least.”

“I am here, am I not?” I could feel myself losing my temper, but the red chiffon cloth pushed the anger away.

“Just because you want sex, otherwise you would not be here.”

“I am getting a bit confused here. You are the other woman. You are what is known as a small house. What more would I want from you?”

“So you don’t love me. You are just using me”.

I put my arms around her. She almost pulled away, but settled comfortably in my arms. When I turned her around, she was crying.

“I thought everything was clear. I told you I was married before I asked you out and I made it clear that you wouldn't replace my wife”.

“I know”. She tearfully responded.

“So what seems to be the problem?”

“I am a woman, okay. You think I can just open my legs and not feel anything. Not fall for you?”

“But I am not your only boyfriend”.

“You are”.

“I am not a fool Emmah. There is no way you can be paying rent on this place on your own”.

“The sixty year old who pays rent does not count. He just loves the idea that he has a young girlfriend. We have never had sex. I love you”.

At that very moment, I gained a bit of perspective. I had viewed Emmah as slightly better than a prostitute you pick up on the street. But it seemed I was wrong.

“Okay, what do you want me to do?”

“I could be your second wife”.

She got out of arms and rushed off. I heard the bathroom door bang. I heard the sound of water gushing out of the tap. She was crying. I stood by the window and looked outside. Two young women were standing by the street corner. One looked up, we made eye contact and she gave a tiny wave and smiled. I waved back and turned away from the window. As I was walking towards the bathroom, Emmah came out. She let the red chiffon thingy drop to the floor. I took out a packet of condoms from my pocket. She took the condoms from me and threw them away.

“Don’t worry, I am on the pill.”