A woman is the flesh
Embodiment of
A man's desires
CHAPTER 1
Tim was having a terrible day.
Already, Mr. Croogan, his boss, had shouted at him twice; a customer had hurled
insults at him because he had brought the wrong meal; and a careless co-worker
had spilled a chocolate drink all over his trousers. He felt a hot surge of
anger and humiliation, yet he forced a cheerful smile to mask his frustration,
all to keep the customers satisfied.
This endless parade of scolding,
disrespect, and small indignities—was what he endured day after day, and he
hated every moment of it. He hated the job. He hated how powerless it made him
feel. But he had no choice. Jobs were scarce, especially for someone with only
a high school certificate, and he had fought long and hard just to land this
one. To give it up now because it didn't earn him respect or dignity was
impossible.
If only he weren't shouldering
the responsibility of caring for his baby sister and his blind father. If only
He was free to chase his dreams. Then, he could devote every working moment to
the path he had chosen—the path of music. He had decided years ago, when he was
nineteen, that he would become a star, a musician who could pour his soul into
every note. Yet here he was, trapped, the weight of duty pinning him down while his dreams waited, silent and patient, in the corners of his heart.
He had everything it took: a
voice that could move hearts and a rare, effortless skill on both the guitar
and the piano. Even his appearance worked in his favor—5 ft 7 in,
ebony-skinned, with dark, compassionate eyes, a slightly pointed nose, strong
cheekbones, and a crooked, endearing smile that always leaned more toward his
left cheek.
His mother had always believed in
him. She told him, again and again, that he would make a wonderful musician.
Yet he never truly believed her. At the time, he dismissed her words as a
mother's indulgence, convinced she was only saying them because she had taught
him everything he knew about music. From the age of ten, she drilled him
relentlessly—piano keys under aching fingers, guitar strings biting into his
skin, his voice pushed and stretched until it learned how to soar.
Still, despite her certainty, she
never pushed him into talent competitions or paraded his gift before the world.
She never urged him to chase fame or applause. She only smiled and said, "You'll
make a wonderful musician…."
Ironic. Her refusal to push him toward a career in music planted doubt where confidence should have grown. He mistook her restraint for uncertainty, and over time, that doubt settled deep inside him.
Then came the accident—the one
that stole her life and took his father's sight along with it. In the wreckage
that followed, something else broke open inside him. Grief forced him inward, and there, in the quiet and the pain, he found himself again. Music wasn't just
sound anymore; it was memory, refuge, and truth. It was the only place where she still felt alive.
He finally understood then: his talent was all he had. And if he was ever going to make anything of it, he had to believe in himself first. Perhaps that was what his mother had seen all along—his fragile confidence, his fear of claiming his greatness. Perhaps that
was why she stepped back, waiting for him to choose on his own.
He had made that choice four
years ago, at nineteen. Now he was twenty-three. And still, the dream sat
untouched.
Life had intervened.
Responsibility had tightened its grip. After the accident, he took the job
without hesitation—long hours, little pay—just to keep food on the table and a
roof over his little sister's head, just to guide his blind father through a world he could no longer see.
And so, the music waited.
It waited in the quiet moments,
in the ache of unfinished dreams, and in the hollow space where courage had yet
to catch up with hope.
How he wished he could abandon this
damn job and finally chase his dream, Tim thought, wiping down a table recently
vacated by some customers. Abruptly, his eyes snapped to the front door—it had
swung open, just as he expected, and a group of new customers stepped inside.
They were four in all. Their
voices carried a heated debate as they strode toward his section, completely
absorbed in their world. By the time they reached the table, Tim had finished
cleaning, and they plopped down, still arguing, oblivious to anything else
around them.
Tim hovered nearby, waiting
patiently for them to place their orders. Seconds stretched into minutes. They
didn't even glance at him, their conversation drowning out the soft clatter of
plates and the hum of the restaurant. He shifted from foot to foot, a quiet irritation building inside him—his presence invisible, his patience tested.
"Excuse me," Tim said mildly, "can I take your orders, please?" They didn't answer. He may as well be invisible, he thought. This is really becoming a rotten day. He screwed his lips and stared at them with displeasure; he was thinking that the prick of mortification wasn't about to stop poking his ass. Boy, does he hate this job! He was about to turn and leave when one of them said something that caught his attention. Pausing, he discarded his debased thoughts and tuned his ears to their debate. Before long, he deduced that they were a band and that their lead vocalist had just left them after a quarrel over a personal issue. They were blaming one another for his departure. It seemed they had a
gig to play at a school's graduation in four days' time, and they were worried
they wouldn't find a replacement in time.
Tim's heart pounded as he
realized the opportunity standing right before him—an opportunity to finally
live his dream. A shiver of excitement ran through him as he summoned the
courage to step forward.
"Em—excus—em—excuse me, please…
Sorry… please… sorry, excuse me…" His voice trembled, barely audible over the
hum of the restaurant.
The three guys and the girl
froze, their conversation halting mid-sentence. They looked down at him,
eyebrows raised, as if he had just stumbled into some secret ritual.
"If you're looking for a singer,
I—uh—I can sing," Tim said, his words tumbling out in nervous bursts.
The girl's eyes lit up. "Oh—you
can? Really? That's great! Guys, what do you think—a singing waiter?"
Two of the guys chuckled, leaning
into each other, but the third remained stone-faced, arms crossed, radiating
irritation.
"Will you cut that out, Mary—and
you two, stop laughing!" the unamused fellow barked. Then he fixed Tim with a
sharp glare, making the boy shrink slightly under the weight of his stare. "Who
told you we needed a singer? And what makes you think you can sing?"
Tim swallowed hard. His hands
shook. "Well, I… I overheard your conversation. I—I'm sorry, I eavesdropped,
but I couldn't help it. But I know I… I can. If you give me a chance, I—I can
prove it. Please… if you try me, I—I mean…"
A tense silence filled the air,
broken only by the soft clink of cutlery from other tables. Every second
stretched painfully long, and Tim felt as if his dream—and his chance—hung in
the balance.
"You can, can you?" he said
thoughtfully."
Then he looked at Tim curiously
for about one minute.
"Okay, we'll try you," he said
finally. "Let me have your writing pad and pen."
Tim gave them to him and watched
as he scribbled something on the writing pad.
"Know this place?" He
stretched the pad and pen back at Tim.
"Umm—I"Umm—I can find it," Tim
replied.
"Meet us there tomorrow at four
on the dot, okay? Then we'll see if you can sing.
Now can we please make our
orders?"
"Ya-yeah, of course, I won't be
late." Tim said, grinning in excitement and appreciation.