The first time a worldly gentleman leaned in and kissed her, Jenny didn’t think she might be getting herself involved with an egoist, an influential man who sought a quick, midnight stroke with Vanity. Back then, fresh out of college with degrees in Poetry and Classics, Jenny desired romance, a literary romance; in her susceptible mind, she had thought up a whole exchange of passionate words. She thought of pages in envelopes like folded bed sheets; she thought words could age like wine; the mailbox, a cellar where words could keep in order to grow more palatable. Back then, Jenny dared ask of the world a Lover who would drop dark ink from a jeweled pen. To be more precise, she wanted words delicately formed with a writing instrument from the Montblanc Bohème Collection. Words slowly arranged with the sole intention of communicating tenderness.
Jenny is older now and times change and technology just keeps getting sexier.
So whenever some Wrong Number is in the mood, Jenny has phone sex on her Motorola Razor. Everyone admires how that phone has got as much edge as has Jenny. Sharpening her edge keeps her from slitting her wrists, which is what she might do if she thought too long and hard about her naivety of the past. Forget that. Now she hopes the Wire-tapper regime is squeezing in on her line so that more strangers might also be gaining something from her pleasure.
Jenny never speaks, much less writes; she only sighs and sometimes weeps. She hates words. They never really did much for her.