a spy's tale

The spy woke up with bloodshot eyes, a reminder of the night that has already gone. The party went ticking until the break of dawn, it’s ten past one and his day is yet to begin. Half the world has had their lunch and is now moving back to whatever there is that keeps them busy at this time of the day, but he, the spy is yet to take his breakfast, and after doing so, try to figure out how the rest of his day would be spent.

Reminders of the party, err, mission littered at his bedroom’s floor. The nice crisp top and the overly posh bow tie still have the scent of the night that has passed. It was a night that most single person in the world would love to be in, pathetic Americans called it ‘singles’ dance’ but our dear little spy calls it ‘desperates’ dance’. Men and gals of his age dress up, wear the fanciest they have, and by fancy we mean expensive and overtly suggestive, if not seductively designed designers. They call it a night, but what transpires really is hotter than a sun shinny day. Booze, music and bodies all so warmed up and anticipating some rain. Pathetic.

The spy is a sly. He has learned to play with fire, it burns and it hurts though, but he has to. His job is to get people bodied, give them what they want in exchange of something he wants. Quite fair, but the trade is, he the spy takes an even more valuable stash. And may I add, without his victim’s knowing, well at least, not until after he’s gone and could never be seen again.

That’s what spies do, play trickery. To hide in the motions of the emotions he has been trained to tickle and cloak over his creeping hands. A spy is, a spy does.

He’s a master of seducing even the most adored and the seemingly untouchable. Perks of the job, as they say; ride nice fancy wheels and drive other wheels, you know. It’s quite fun, or at least it seems.

But hours like this, when he is but the person that he is, no longer the coded agent that the world knows only for his name, he is but like a nude and naked body in the dessert. Vulnerable.

The truth is, the spy woke up triumphantly, or at least, that’s what to others he may seem because of a nice work done. But deep inside, inside that warm body that seems untouchable. That very body that has been entwined with another’s just the night before, and the many other nights that has gone. The very body that went dashing on red carpeted floors of hotels around the world with that damsel who, after the mission, would be knocking at his room for an expression of ‘gratitude’. That very body that owns the caressing hands that have touched many other hands wrapped with the gloves of love, err, at least, a little ploy of seduction. Yes, that very warm body -is empty.

Spies don’t fall in love; or at least, they are not allowed. Angels might have chiseled every inch of their faces and everything below it, but such dishful perfection isn’t made to simply make others fall in love, though in the surface maybe, but not according to the code. Every spy is a god, incapable of loving, despite that smooth brute they have been perfected to become. They just don’t have the right to fall in love. Love is a liability, and loving is a sin.

Thing is, though, love isn’t a spy’s thing, that doesn’t mean he can’t play it.
So pardon me now, I have a game to play, err maybe, a breakfast to catch.