Short Story: Medusa

Short Story: Medusa

She was gorgeous. Everybody said so. But her thick black hair, heavier than silk and stronger than steel was ruining the décor of my apartment and she simply had to go. Telling her so was the easy part, explaining why was slightly harder. Sometimes I would make allowances for English being her third language but a PhD in the romantic poetry of Shelley meant making such excuses futile. Her comprehension was excellent. So instead I simply asked her to accompany me on a short tour of the upper floor of the penthouse.

'Look here,' I said, trying not to sound too upset although the sight of the blond ash wood floor, so defaced was extremely distressing. 'Can you see?' She looked but apparently she could not see. I knelt down and motioned for her to do the same. Here, I said and here too. A stray hair had completely ruined the effect. The wood had been imported from Sweden at considerable expense, the floor designed and laid by an interior design team who had worked on the V&A exhibition on contemporary furniture. Surely she could appreciate that her hair ruined the overall effect. The sun slanted in off the river as it rolled and coiled away to the sea. The reflected light highlighted the strands as they lay like black cracks across the soft sanded surface of the floor of the lounge.

One I noted clung to the edge of a Philip Starke chair leg. Oh really, it was too much.

'No,' I said, 'stop, that’s the wrong kind of brush.' She as using an ordinary nylon bristled floor brush to sweep the offending hairs from the room. This would of itself invalidate the guarantee. If you must tidy up then please use the correct equipment. The green handled device is in the scullery, by the vacuum cleaner. She hurried from the room and I heard the door close in the lobby. I realised that she was in fact leaving the building. At least the floor was safe.

We had met at the Academic Board where she was introduced as the new PA to the Pro Vice Chancellor. Her connections in the University of Upsalla had evidently secured her the necessary clearance and it wasn’t long before her looks had attracted attention from all of the senior faculty.

Even some of the unmarried chaps seemed keen to make her acquaintance. At first I thought her too stereotypically beautiful but fairly quickly I could see that there was a certain Nordic charm that might grow over time.

Gertrude was flattered to be compared to the blonde one out of Abba but assured me that her cousin Agnethe, although far, far richer, was the least musical of the family. By way of underlining the comparison she tucked my Stradivarius, previously anchored over the hi-fi, under her pretty little chin. Rosined up she pulled down a few arpeggios then proceeded to deliver a perfect solo rendition of Barber’s adagio for strings before segueing deliciously into a folksy version of Dizzee Rascal’s ‘Bonkers’. I had scarcely stopped applauding when she plonked herself at the baby grand and belted out a snorting Little Richard selection before finishing off with some of Beethoven’s ninth.

'Darling, you were magnificent.' It was sweet of her to say so and indeed or physical copulation had been most satisfying. But a compliment is not to be ignored and I graciously demurred, admiring her disappearing derriere as he took herself off to the bathroom.

It was then that I noticed the hairs on the black silk sheets. To say that she was surprised to find herself so suddenly standing by the kerb hailing a cab was a perfect example of understatement. I felt bad enough to slip the driver some folding money as the cab pulled away but I could not bring myself to wave. The sheets ended up in a charity shop. And the last

I heard she had been promoted. Ah well, someone with more money than sense, no doubt, and a disregard for tidiness.

Zelda was stunning. Bald as a billiard ball, I knew she was the girl for me; her statuesque physique not with standing. Our romance progressed at an alarming rate until I had even considered popping the question and asking her if she might consider keeping her spare toothbrush in the bathroom. She was giddy at the mere suggestion and after far too much Chablis we fell into bed. I should have known there was a problem when she intimated that she had something to tell me. I forestalled her revelations.

'You’re a man. You used to be a man. You want to be a man?'

After she had stopped laughing she confessed to her true crime. She was, apparently, undergoing treatment for cancer. I didn’t ask. She was fishing some photographs out if her handbag. Look at my hair then, she said. I didn’t want to know, didn’t want to look. Her chemotherapy was progressing extremely well and she was confident that her hair would start to grow back any day, the consultant had said as much just last week. I had the taxi number on speed dial and one tap of the screen sent an automatic message.

And yet the pictures seemed to draw my gaze and as I looked I felt by blood chill and my posture grew rigid. In the photographs wild and writhing coils of hair seemed to sprout from her head and haloed her person. The closer I looked the more her hair seemed to be alive. It writhed around and I was reminded of the black mambas that once slithered across the lounge floor, of the sleek silvery blonde wriggling things that crawled on my bed sheets. I started to speak but no words would come to my throat.

'Are you ok?' she enquired. I couldn’t move, so paralysed by rage I seemed to solidify as she walked around the room. Just then a uniformed figure entered the room. I dimly noted there were in fact two of them. My eyes felt heavy.

Every movement was a colossal effort.

'Where do you want it putting?' one said. 'Over there, by the door. We can use it as a coat stand.'

'Bloody heavy, this, gasped the other. Is it made of stone?'

I felt myself levitate and move as if carried by unseen hands.

'Yes,' she said, draping a hat and scarf over my head, 'it’s made of stone.'