Another Way of Being by belasera

A look at the complication that is Saffron. If you review, feel free to be as heartless as my heroine!

......................................... "What’s yer name, girl?” My name, huh? Why’s this man think he needs to name me, after cutting my lip so pretty with his own hand. Seems to me he’s named me already. Whore. I spit my own blood out at him but I won’t spit out my name. Not the real one anyhow. Not the one my mother kissed me with. He swings his hand again, but I’ve had enough of this play. Swiftly I bring my own hand up to block his, and say calmly, sweetly even… “Our session has ended.” He looks sharply at the hourglass, bottom heavy, and his entire demeanor changes. From a willful lord to that of a meek sad little man. His true self. His true name. I dismiss him with the cool assurance of a woman who knows that domination cannot be bought and sold. When he’s left, tail between his legs, the very air in the room seems to expand. It’s a relief to be sure, after it being so crowded with the man’s tension, his completely predictable issues and needs. I give a chilly smile in the mirror. My old companion sisters would be shocked to be sure. This dalliance goes against everything I was ever taught in that place. About beauty and respect, about the unifying bond of sex. Oh, I could just die laughing. All that pretty noise about whoring. Cause that’s what it is, and it don’t matter a good gorram what you name it. Or what name you give to those that do it. …………………………………………………………………………………. So call me Saffron, then. Like someone did for a minute once. Not that that matters now. Certainly I hold no special place in my bossom for my dear husband Malcom Reynolds. The man once left me in a trash can, not to mention…well, really it’s not worth mentioning. He’s nothing to me. So maybe I’ve taken to hanging around spaceports, scanning the crowds for a familiar face. And maybe I’ve had a lot of clients lately that happen to be captains. And I suppose it’s not their fault that they turn out to be just like every other man in the ‘verse. I surely know that there’s nothing special about a man in command. They’re all just another dog in the rut. When I trained to be a companion, they used to just go on and on about the uniquness of every client. Which, beside showing a gross misunderstanding of the word unique, has turned out to be completely false when judged by experience. A month out of training I knew it. And I wondered then, as I hardly even care to now, why all the dressing up of our profession? When girls would be better prepared by knowing the truth. Oh, but they buy it, these companions. Every joining is special to them, and they think it must be the same for those they’re joined with. Rubbish. Does a milliner bond with every client she sells a hat to? It’s just business, dearies. I’m not bitter about my training, don’t hear me wrong. I can mill a better hat than most because of it. I just can’t buy the notions built up about it. Wuo du ma, I just want to make a living. Which I was doing a very good job of, in fact, before a certain someone left me to rot in a certain trash can. And I nearly did rot, maybe it would have been better if I had, or if the humping lassitor had fired out of Inara’s pretty little hand. It would have saved me the hardship of savvying my way out of Federation prison. I hate to use words like con, or bribe, but you can imagine that I did what I could to get out of that dump. I have places to be, after all. Scores to settle. A wayward husband to track down. No need to worry, I’m not really after revenge. Worse than that. I’m in love. ................................... to be continued...