didn’t lie to me, did you?”
“No, but there are questions that I would advise you not to ask.”
But after using and abusing her for a couple of months, Sport found himself unable to do anything without having her by his side. “Where is your boyfriend?” he eventually asked.
“Finally,” she said, smiling at him. “Finally you ask ‘the question’. But, now, I don’t know whether to lie to you or tell you the truth. Which do you want me to do?”
“Lie.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“And what am I?”
“You said lie, and I lied.”
Sport looked into the distance as if he was calculating something. “The truth then, Pretty,” he finally said. “Where is your boyfriend?”
“You mean my boyfriends.”
The answer didn’t surprise him; somehow he had always known that she had more than one, but the honesty of her answer made him love her more than ever.
“How many do you have?” he asked.
“I have lost count; they come, they go.” She smiled. “But do you really want to know?” she asked, the tone of her voice changing. “Do you really want to know? I don’t want to lie to you, so if you don’t want to know, please don’t ask.”
“Do you love your boyfriends?” he asked.
“I have sex with them, if that is where you are going with this.” She smiled and gave a laugh that aroused his soul. “But why are you so interested in my private life today? Because, let me tell you, Sport, I don’t like to reflect on what I am. I don’t like what I am. It is not what I want to be.”
While she had been speaking she had changed; her eyes had turned red and her voice had become angry. “You can use me as you want,” she continued, “but please don’t stir me up.” She stopped as tears filled her eyes. “Don’t touch my heart.”
“I wasn’t stirring,” Sport protested. “I just wanted to understand why a beautiful, intelligent girl is stuck like you are.”
By now the tears were flowing out of her eyes, and she opened the door to get out of the car. “Bitch, what do you think you are doing?” he said, intending to scare her, but immediately he felt ashamed.
“Yes, say that again,” she said, stopping to look at him, half in and half out of the car. “Say it again. Say it. Use me like all the other bitches you have used. Don’t come here pretending that you want anything more than what you really want. And don’t blame me when I give it to you.” Her voice, though calm, held a violence that scared him.
They looked at each for a moment, then she wiped away her tears. “You are not the first one to buy me expensive shoes,” she said. “You are not the first one to buy me cologne. Men have bought me things all my life, and you know what the funny thing is? I have never asked them for anything. No. They just buy me things, like you did. They just do it.” She paused to catch her breath. “You all make up stories,” she continued. “‘My boss this . . .’, ‘My boss that . . .’ I always say ‘no’, but they buy me things anyway, just like you did. And, somehow, I have learned to love the fact that they buy me things, because deep down I know that they don’t care. After they ejaculate they will move on to someone else, and there will be somebody else for me too. I don’t like it, but I didn’t choose it either.”
“Is that what you think of me?” Sport asked.
“That is what I know about men,” she replied, “and you are a man as I am a woman.”
“Pretty, I want to help you.”
“You are stirring me up! Please stop.”
“Listen to me . . .”
There were people who had stirred her up before and none of them had ever honoured their promises, but Sport was different, and a few months later Pretty found herself at the University of the North, all her hopes and dreams on fire, the goalposts just three more years away.
Sport was so committed to Pretty that, for once in his life, he focused only on her. He had always had lots of girlfriends, but with Pretty he had found everything he was looking for. He did not need to be with another woman. But Pretty was pretty and it wasn’t long before she had a fellowship of wannabe boyfriends, and eventually one of them began to share the stage with Sport. Inevitably, one Tuesday night when they were busy in bed, Pretty heard Sport’s GT roaring outside, but she dismissed the idea because Sport only ever visited on weekends – saying that he didn’t want to interfere with her studies. But then there was a knock on the door, and the knock was Sport’s.
“Who is it?” she asked, and immediately he knew something was wrong because she had never asked him to identify himself before.
Sport knew that the room had burglar bars on the outside, so he relaxed and waited to see what would happen. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Pretty opened the door. Behind her the boyfriend was sitting on a chair, his books open and a pencil in his hands, trembling a little.
The truth was obvious, but Sport didn’t want to believe it. He pushed past Pretty and offered his hand to the boyfriend, watching as the pencil slipped and fell. Sport picked it up, trying to catch the boy’s eye as he gave it back to him, but his eyes were running all over the room.
“Don’t you think that study time is up?” Sport eventually asked.
The boy didn’t know what to say.
“I mean that you can go now,” Sport continued. “You can continue studying tomorrow . . .”
Then, finally, the boy offered Sport his hand and they shook hands very hard.
After the boy had left Sport turned to Pretty, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to compose himself. Even though he had been half expecting it, the fact that she had another boyfriend had hit him hard. He didn’t know what to do.
Pretty had talked herself out of almost every situation with men, but this time she didn’t know where to start. “I am sorry,” she finally said, but it was as if he didn’t even hear her. “Sport, I am sorry,” she said again, trying to break his silence.
Finally, Sport looked at her, but it was too much for him and he made for the door.
“Sport, don’t leave me,” she cried.
He paused at the door and wiped away his tears. It was the first time in his life a woman had ever made him cry.
“Sport, I am sorry,” she said once more, as he opened the door.
“For what?” he asked violently, closing the door and turning back to her. “What are you sorry for?”
In his line of business you were only sorry when you got caught; sorry because you got caught, but not sorry for the act itself.
“Sport, I am sorry,” she repeated, trembling with emotion.
“You’re sorry. Yes, Pretty, I understand. But what is it that you are so sorry for?” He took a step towards her and she tripped on the corner of the bed, anticipating the fist that she knew was coming.
“For the last time, Pretty,” he said, looking down at her, “what are you sorry for?”
Then he thrashed her, and by the time the campus security came to rescue her there was nothing pretty about her.
* * *
The morning after Sport had caught her with her boyfriend, Pretty sat down to think about her prospects. Her father’s money had finally come through, but it wasn’t even enough to keep her going for a month, and the student fund was only available for the next study year. The truth of it was that without Sport’s financial support she would have to abort her studies. It was either that