My Sunday Rest

There's a dildo living at the bottom of my bedside table draw. It has been living there for a long time, and I seldom take it out. It is average size, the usual shape, but I’ve never been very fond of its slippery texture, like that of a used condom. I’ve never been very fond of its colour either. My dildo is bright purple, looks like a penis from outer space. I know this is a totally arbitrary association of ideas, but that’s the way it feels. And I don’t have many fantasies about creatures from other planets. Sometimes I see it more as a complement for a toy I don’t have: the disproportionate member of a Buzz Lightyear. To be honest, this idea doesn’t turn me on either.

Leaving aside concerns about the colour, the great thing about it is that it can vibrate. It can keep the precision and the rhythm like nothing else. It can do all the work while you just go deeper into your fantasies. And just with the help of two small batteries which, unfortunately, last Sunday had run out.
It wasn’t really a big deal, I mean the fact that the dildo wouldn’t work, I can usually do without it, but, somehow, I had already planted a seed in my brain: the idea of using it. It was like, for instance, when I’m cooking couscous and I imagine it will have zucchini in it. Even if I don’t usually use it so therefore I know it’s not necessary, if I have imagined it, I can leave the couscous and run with the apron under my coat to get one zucchini from the greengrocer’s. Something similar happened with the dildo on Sunday. I had imagined the evening would be funnier with it, and I just thought going out for five minutes to get some batteries would be worth it.

I put on my jeans, my trainers, and a coat and I buttoned it up to hide the fact that I was not wearing a bra. I tied my hair back in a ponytail; took the keys and my purse and ran downstairs. When I got outside, the silence, the isolation, the shop doors closed and that Sunday sensation made me realize that it was, indeed, Sunday. No problem. There’s plenty of convenience stores around, they are everywhere, they sell a wide variety of things, they will have batteries.

Course they will.

I just have to walk a few meters to get to the closest shop, open as usual, with the manager sitting back in a chair, watching a Bollywood film. It’s what he always does, at any time, no matter when you go, sitting in the same position without any alteration. He must be in his early forties; his skin is dark brown, and because of the poor light of the shop you are always surprised to see his eyes floating in the darkness. He doesn’t say or do anything, just stares at you for a moment, like a cat that mistrusts the visitors. Sometimes he lets his beard grow out, but he looks hotter when he doesn’t. I’ve never seen him smiling, though I know he must be able to. I know he must be able of lots of things, but it feels like he’s saving all the emotions for later, collecting them for the right time and place; but you can feel them, beating, holding their breath behind his eyes, about to explode but still waiting.

When I got into the shop he averted his eyes from the telly and raised his head with a quick movement to say hello. I said hello and went in. I slowly walked along the only shop corridor. He sells plungers, baked beans, drawing pins, rubber rings. He must have batteries. But the corridor ended and I had to retrace my steps sceptically. “They must be with the sweets, behind the counter”, I said to myself, so I asked him:

“Do you sell batteries?"

“No. No batteries.”-he answered without taking his eyes of the screen.

“No batteries?” I repeated instinctively. Because I couldn’t believe it. It would have been so reasonable and perfect that he would have had batteries. It’s like when you love someone who doesn’t love you; your first thought tends to be that the feeling must be hidden somewhere inside them, very deep, it’s just they can’t see it. I have a quick look behind him but there’s only chocolate bars and chewing gum.
I was about to leave the shop when I heard him asking behind my back
“What kind of batteries do you need?”

I was thunderstruck. I felt he knew everything about me and the dildo, but how could he? I looked at myself to check if there was something that was giving me away. Obviously, there was nothing. Suddenly I remembered he keeps an iron stick under the counter, to protect himself from hypothetical thieves. He showed it to me once, I don’t know why, as if he had felt like telling me a secret. That day I tried to look very impressed but I felt sorry for him and I don’t think I could hide it.
“Just batteries. Small ones, I guess.”

"Go to the shop on the corner, they will have batteries there."

“Right. Thank you.”
And I disappeared from the shop feeling ridiculously embarrassed, as if I had been caught stealing something. It would have made much more sense to go to the shop he had indicated to me on the first place. They sell cell phones, watches, calculators… that sort of thing; but I never thought it would be open on a Sunday. The man that runs that shop always wears a white coat, like a doctor or a chemist. He also wears a pair of big specs with tinted lenses. When I went into the shop I saw him sitting in front of his computer. He looked serious, focused. Immediately he raised his head to say:

“Can I help you?”
I tried to find a couple of eyes behind those glasses but without success.

“Yeah. I need some batteries. Small batteries.”

“Small?” I sensed in his tone of voice a subtle recrimination for my lack of rigor.

“Yeah. Like this.” And I showed him with my fingers the rough size of the batteries I need.
I must admit it wasn’t very accurate but, what the hell? How many different kinds of small batteries exist?
He stood up and sighed and walked slowly up to a shelf. He mostly devotes his life to selling phone cards and calculators, but with that coat and that efficient air he looks like he works on the particle accelerator, and I respect him more for that.

“Like this?” he said showing me a for pack of batteries that would work for my tv remote.

“No, smaller.”
He looked at the batteries in his hand and suddenly I heard the question coming from his mouth, without prior warning.

“What are they for?”

Jesus Christ.
No time to feel sorry for myself. Think. Fast. Say anything. Anything.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”
He clearly didn't’t believe what I was saying. Tomorrow all the neighbourhood will know I’m a slapper. Soon they will burn me at the stake.

“No. Somebody else asked me to buy them. But I don’t know what they are for.”
I tried to look convincing. I think I did fine.

“Well, I don’t have any smaller batteries, unless you want watch batteries.”

When I got out of the shop I was carrying a little plastic bag with four batteries for my remote control and a waterproof radio for the shower. I didn’t need them, but I was trying really hard to do something about that emptiness I felt.
I got home; left my shopping on the kitchen table and only then did I wake up to the fact that I wouldn’t be able to use my dildo. But thereupon I opened the fridge and I realized there was a zucchini, and that was my salvation for it meant I could cook couscous.
A proper one.