Bruce detested good days. Not only were they a testament that things had the potential of going right yet went south because some asshole higher power decided that they were having a bad day, but it also set an unspeakable precedence unto the events that were to happen next. Good days were overrated.
Bruce had been having a good day so far. She managed to get more than 5 hours of sleep, had a relatively easy-going morning, and got out of a meeting that was intent on dragging on mercilessly – in Mandarin no less. A quick excuse and a coffee later, Bruce found herself breaking her promise to her intended. Such an old saying, it was a banality, but she was firm in her resolve not to call him ‘baby’ or whatever. Now that was something only 20-something idiots used, and she was not an idiot. Except for that time she purchased a thousand-dollar Chanel on impulse. She didn’t need it, especially since her whole wallet had gone digital. But Bruce took pride in her ability to buy what she wanted, whenever she wanted. Financial freedom was a very expensive look on her.
“No coffee for the next week”
She took a sip of her latte as she was reminded of the promise she was currently breaking. Those were her intended’s solution to all sleep-related problems – be it too-light-of-a-nap furies, past-midnight insomniac texts, or 6am tosses and turns. She thought about him for a bit, and took another sip. Her drink was soon losing its boiling petulance and easing its way to adopting the temperature of the room, a nasty circumstance which made Bruce gag. She’d usually discard both food and drinks – regardless of price tag – the moment they reached that stage.
Sighing, she pulled up her browser window and pushed her hair out of her face. She hated her fringe. She liked that tousled look a long fringe gave, but in recent times have just been begging to be cut. The constant falling past her eyes coupled with the cruel humidity eradicated all possibility of using anything but matte lip colours. Lipsticks sometimes worked when she had her hair up and there was no way her fringe could humiliate her by smearing the colour all over her chin, which did happen on more than one occasion.
She typed in his name. Then his wife’s name. It was pretty cut and dry, the same information she’d read a year ago. Nothing had changed. The two immigrated over when Bruce was still in uniform and learning about standard deviation and labelling the human reproductive system. Not only was he far too married, but she was far too busy to attend to the likes of him. Plus, anyone whose tastes ran to the untalented, unattractive, and unemployed, was definitely not worthy of attention.
She made an angry sound at the back of the throat, like the French did when they were rallying to start a sentence. It was hard to not think about him when she saw him all the time. Bruce imagined his piercing eyes and pondered her taste in men. With women it was easier, possibly because she had the same working parts, but the ballgame was generally more elementary. They were facile and shallow creatures, easy to predict and even easier to seduce. Her ex-girlfriend followed the mould to a T. Despite her idiotic mettle and one-dimensional personality, she was still a nightmare Bruce was struggling to forget. Crazy, that one.
Men were different. Anatomically, it didn’t make much difference to Bruce. But the divergence in types when scouting for a male partner as compared to a female one, was so far apart that Bruce sometimes imagined herself bipolar. Most people were surprised that someone as feminine and inclined to “girly things” as Bruce was would didn’t go for the motorbike dykes, those with the precariously-styled hair and baby muscles peeking out beneath that Pink Floyd graphic tee.
Ew, Bruce thought. Not her type. There was no point in scouting for masculine-looking females when to Bruce, that was the equivalent was effeminate-looking men. Forget the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, she’d take Rooney Mara as she was. Noomi Rapace too; all seven of her in What Happened to Monday was a walking wet dream. She wasn’t sure what motivated her to love girls the way she did. They needn’t have strong personalities or a mind of their own, really. She loved them as they were. Damaged.
This was different for men. Physique aside – strong, athletic bodies was her preference – she was pickier. She couldn’t stand them with utterly stupid taste in music, contemporary bullshit and the likes, no. And no bumbling idiots either, incapable of original thoughts and inarticulate verbose. She liked them assertive, and manly. She was fine with borderline sexism too; pouting at their dominating demeanour, having them pay for pretty much everything – and in return needing to bow her head in submissive gratification.
It was like being at war with herself.
“No, the first was plenty” Bruce replied, her smile uncomfortable on her face. She realised she hasn’t moved her face in over three hours. She adjusted it on her face. Yes, more natural, but her teeth felt gummy and stuck to her top lip.