The sight of that slender, petite lady in that ultra short one-piece office outfit caused so much blood to flow South that I literally retained no memory of the next few minutes of my otherwise meaningless existence.
I must therefore ask the reader to fast forward the current scene a little bit, to the part where somehow, God knows how, Icarus had welcome both the girl and I into the residence, and I was seated on a huge, comfortable sofa in a living room that had a huge plasma TV screen, while that girl – no doubt an angel descended to Earth – was busy unpacking her barang barang for the night.
The residence was truly minimalist in design. There were no gaudy, extravagant displays of wealth. No oil paintings and abstract art by some con artist that sold for millions of times more than the toilet paper over which they are painted. No jade or porcelain or expensive pottery to let the casual outsider know just how rich the home owner was. Every piece of furniture was functional in nature, and deliberately understated. The only clue to great wealth was the sheer size of the residence and the exquisite care taken by the group of servants to keep it spick and span literally on an hourly basis. Whenever I visited the residence, I felt myself drawn into a world where wealth was not just an absolute good but also an absolute inevitability – the end result of efforts that occurred almost effortlessly as if they were mere accidents of design and intent.
