Women Change over Time

I remember back to when I was younger. It was the first few days of January and the buds of New Year possibility were beginning to green and shoot with growth. As I sat in my kitchen gazing out at the brisk world I was deciding some mundanity like what to have for breakfast. Scrambled eggs? Poached Eggs? Fried Eggs? Eggs?

Scrambled eggs seemed the perfect choice for me as I had some lovely square slices of full grain toasting bread in my bread bin. Fishing the bin out from its place in one of the cupboards I daintily took two slices and dropped them into two slots of the stainless steel toaster. I would not toast them yet, the eggs needed to be scrambled first, to ensure synchronization of readiness of all aspects of the meal.

As the eggs were pelted and whipped by the fork I was using, the meaning and uses of the word 'scrambled' bandied round my head. Whenever I thought or heard the word 'scrambled' it was used about ninety per cent of the time as a prefix for 'eggs'. The other more exciting ten percent was attributed to the areas of fighter jets scrambling. Or to a spy getting interrogated and having their mind scrambled.

Because the scrambled I am most familiar with is the egg variety I always imagined when I heard of the other two examples, a fighter jet in a mess of fluffed egg yellow strewn across a runway with some army guy waving two landing batons at the mess. A more cinematic situation could be aplied to the spy and their mind scrambling. Two menacing interrogators have the spy hooked up to some type of electro shock device. He can't take it anymore, he goes limp and the men smile. His mind is scrambled, a solitary trickle of scrambled egg dribbles from his ear.

Two wildly different scenarios that could admittedly be from the same film if the imagination was pushed to include them. An international spy thriller about scrambled egg secretly making up the structure of the world? Perhaps not. My eggs were ready to be scrambled though. I tipped them into a pan and flicked them this way and that, allowing a second here or there for them to golden crumple into what would be my breakfast. Just then my phone began to vibrate in my pocket.

It was from a number I had not been in contact with for many years, not since I was a teenager. Hey, we should catch up. That was all the message read. Odd, I thought as the eggs hissed in the pan. I never liked leaving time before I replied to a message in case I forgot about it entirely so I replied straight away. Hey, haven't heard from you in ages, want to get lunch later on?

As I waited for the reply I bluntly chopped the eggs in the pan with the wooden spatula. The noise that made always pleased me deeply, right in the centre of my body. The solid tapping of blunt wood through frothy egg and onto the hard metal of a frying pan. Tok tok tok.

Another message delivered to my phone. Sorry, can't do lunch, but you can come over to mine. I'll cook dont worry. The address of the house was included. I knew it, and it wouldn't take me long to get there. This snack of eggs and toast would tide me over until then. I clicked the toast down in the toaster and scraped the egg onto a plate.

As I descended the steps to the metro I thought about this old friend. Was that the right term? A friend? We had been romantically linked for a week or two when we were younger and kept in contact through the internet like most people. It never felt like real contact though, this would be the first time we would see eachother since we were teenagers.

She was two or three years younger than me, a gorgeous girl, really laid back. I will never know why but she was just beyond attractive to me. She wasn't the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, nor was she the most intelligent. That's not to say she wasn't beautiful or intelligent, she was. If I ever thought about it I always came to the conclusion that it was just how balanced she was. She was competent at everything and my god, she was light years cooler than me.

I boarded the metro train amidst the midday swathe of workers, all clad in clothes that made efficient sense. Middle age seemed to cling to them like the latest fashion trend. Refined grey hair, deep tanned skin.

My stop came and I wandered out into the station, pulled along by the brown coat and tan briefcase tidal wave that surged up the steps to the midday heat outside. I arrived at her house a little after noon.

It was a decorative old fashioned three storey behind high walls with an iron wrought gate. There was an intercom. I checked the number and street name again just to make sure I was at the right place. Yeah, everything checked out.

Pressing my finger to the intercom I asked was she in. A gruff male voice spoke back asking my reason for visiting. I said I was an old friend coming over for lunch which seemed to satisfy him. He did ask for me to look up into a camera I had not spotted. It was nestled amongst the ivy like some sort of technologic owl. As I looked into it, it clicked. Must have taken a picture, I thought to myself. The gates rolled smoothly back.

This is pretty upmarket I was thinking as I wandered up the well maintained flagstone path. The house was an immaculate old style three storey, quite big while holding onto a sense of cosiness. On the whole the place was gorgeous and I found myself feeling jealous and a little ashamed of my one room apartment.

The front door was a deep red and set amidst an ivy lathered wall. As I raised my hand to knock it was opened by a fridge of a man. All I could think of when I saw him were three letter organisations. CIA. FBI. He had to be something like that. Wearing sunglasses, an earpiece, a black suit. Couple those things with his shaved head and you've got a pretty serviceable character from the majority of spy thrillers. I wondered had his mind ever been scrambled.

Hi. He just nodded, stepped outside and proceeded to search me. He was very thorough. His hand brushed up the inside of my thigh, obliterating any social interaction limits I had though valid in the past. When he was satisfied I was not harbouring any weapons of mass destruction in my trousers he stepped aside and folded his hands in front of his crotch. I took this as the signal for me to move on into the house. Lost for words I just blurted an awkward thank you and stepped into the hallway.

She stepped from what seemed like nowhere and threw her arms around me. How are you! I was taken aback. Fine, I'm fine. She nodded enthusiastically. Great, great. Sorry about well you know, she said and motioned outside toward the fridge in the suit. I let my mouth hang open. I was kinda wondering, I said looking for an explanation. Oh, don't get me started, I'll tell you all about it over pizza. I hope you want pepperoni, it's just ready.

We sat in her back garden on a canopy covered wooden deck. The pizza was amazing, it had way too much character to be pooped from a cardboard box and cooked in twenty minutes. The base was nearly non-existent but just crumpled up delightfully at the edges. The sauce had to be home made, it tasted just bland enough to be fulfilling over and over again. And it was cooked to perfection.

I have to say. I took a bite. This is great pizza. She smiled. Something struck me as odd about the smile, it seemed drastic. Her whole demeanour since I walked in had been sketchy. Almost forced. Thats when I remembered the securtiy guard.

So, what's with the security guard? I just threw it out there as I prided myself on asking the obvious questions. If you didn't they usually came back to bite you. She began to chew her pizza hurriedly. Once she had cleared her mouth she deflated.

Okay, here's how it is. He isn't a security guard. He's a high ranking government agent. You see, I am under, and she paused, house arrest. This came as a suprise. She made such good pizza. Then again, it might explain the pizza making.

She went on to explain how she had completed her college education with flying colours in biochemistry and had the pick of whatever job she wanted. Events just so turned out that she went to work for the highest bidder which happened to be a splinter group of a radical Middle Eastern Political party. She made reference to the 'obnoxious' amounts of money that let her ignore what uses her chemical weapons would be put to.

I listened to this story with a gaping mouth while clumsily reaching for a slice of the pizza without taking my eyes off her. I couldn't get my head around the fact that she was, in most eyes, a terrorist. I suppose people change over time. And this pizza was really good.

She reached for my hand. Her big earnest eyes met mine. You don't think less of me, do you? It was like looking at a puppy. What could I say? Lost for words I just mumbled whatever popped into my head. Have many people died as a result of your weapons? I asked, elongating and emphasising nearly every syllable available. Her eyes dropped to the floor of the wooden deck. Well, at last estimates, they were hoping it was thirteen thousand. I nodded and took a zombie like bite of my pizza. Whoa.

Thirteen thousand. Not just the number. Thirteen thousand people. Living breathing people. With jobs, fears, obsessions, bad relationships, good relationships. Thirteen thousand. That's me and all my thoughts dreams and actions multiplied by thirteen thousand. And they are dead.

She looked up from the floor and her eyes beseeched me. That was only a small percentage of the population of that country! They died immediately, I designed the weapons that way, first take away the consciousness, then suffering is obsolete! I chewed my pizza while never taking my eyes from hers. This is good pizza. I held it up as a means of congratulating her. She looked at it. Thank you?

Having never plumbed the depths of a conversation like this I decided to return to the basics of good communication. Make sure we're starting from the same set of assumptions. So, eh, thirteen thousand people eh? She looked away again. Yes, thirteen thousand, but that is miniscule when compared to other similar actions in history. I mean, Mao massacred an estimated forty million for Gods sake! I took her point onboard. And this Mao fellow, did he do the same college course as you?

Suddenly she reached for my hand. You were always a nice person to me. You never seem to judge people, that's what I like about you. I'm so terribly lonely, I need a man right now. Her eyes seared into mine. Her hand was warm. I couldn't tear my gaze away. Deep in her mahogany eyes swirled the sands of loneliness, a seemingly epic void I might be capabale of filling. I was about to reach for her other hand and give her my answer when she put her finger to my lips. No, wait. She fished a headphone from a music player somewhere in her pocket.

One headphone was placed in my ear and the other in hers. She did this delicately and didn't break eye contact. Listen. That's all she said. Listen. Noises disimilar to music played. I listened intently trying to make out what they were. A rapid fwum fwum fwum of a helicopter rotar I could recognise, and maybe a far off explosion. More noises flooded into my ears.

She was holding my hand tighter now. Her eyes pinched closed. Was she quivering? I could decipher the soundtrack now. It was explosions and army vehicles, and people. People in distress. Oh no. This was the soundtrack of those thirteen thousand war victims.

To be honest I started to panic when I realised this was a recording of a massacre. I casually picked up another slice of the pizza. Folding it in half I tore off a delicious portion of the pointed end. She was still quivering beside me. Was she crying or enjoying it? Maybe it was some sort of catharsis for her, like penance. Hopefully. I skillfully pulled the headphone from my ear so she couldn't see and occupied myself with eatting the pizza until she was finished her convulsion.

I was down near the crust when she looked up with red puffy eyes. Are you alright? She struggled to nod. Fanning her eyes with both hands she managed to speak. Yes I'm fine thank you, it's just, well you know, all the emotion. As I swallowed the pizza I nodded. Oh yes, of course, the emotion. She wiped her tears away and asked me What did you think of it? What did I think of it? I was struggling for words. A word I liked but never got to use was 'harrowing', it seemed to fit the bill. It was, umm, it was harrowing.

She narrowed her eyes. All the vulnerability was gone. She stood up quickly and jabbed her head near me. Harrowing? What the hell do you mean by that? I sat back to get away from her angry scary face. She was livid, veins pumping in her neck and everything. You can't describe trance music as 'harrowing' you fucking moron. Trance music? What the hell was she on about.

I slaved away, adding beats to the screams of those dying people and helicopters in the hope of raising some money for the victims families! Maybe I should have kept the headphone in a bit longer. I needed to say something, at least to try and calm her down. I'm s-s-sorry, I said as I backed away from her, making sure to have a slice of pizza in my hand just incase I didn't get near it again. You're sorry!? Sorry!? Get out! I ask you here, slave over a home made pizza, tell you personal things and then you, you, you describe my highly original trance music that features the live audio deaths of thirteen thousand people as harrowing? The absolute cheek. Out with you. Out now. Right now!

As she shepherded me off the deck and into the kitchen I asked, Any chance I could get the rest of that pizza? Just if you're not eatting it? The pizza hit me straight in the face. I managed to catch half of it before it hit the ground. Glancing down I saw it was salvageable. She forced me out through the kitchen, down the hall, and through the front door, all the while screaming a tidal wave of abuse at me and pointing and stamping her feet and this and that. I can't really remember, I was trying to get the pizza into one of my pockets.

On the front porch she sent me down the three wooden steps. I turned to say goodbye and thank you for the lovely lunch. She was standing there three steps above me, pointing like an enraged dictator off into the distance, sliding the word fuck from her mouth as her beautiful gaze bore into me like fire lasers from hell. The security guard was standing behind her. He took out a little gun that had an injection poised, ready for use. He quickly stepped in behind her, like a sneaky prince, and injected her with it. It must have been a heavy sedative.

She went limp in his arms. I nodded my agreement. Probably needed doing, good job. Thanks for the pizza! As I waited for the steel gates to slide back I thought about how women change over time. Once she was an innocent chemistry student, and now, well now she was a weapons of mass destruction manufacturer who could make fantastic pizza. I pulled a slice from my pocket and picked the dust off it as I made my way back to the metro to go home. Life is such a mystery.