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Imi was born and raised in Europe, Hungary. After finishing his school years, he moved to Canada to search for a better life. He lived in Toronto for 13 years and currently resides in Vancouver. He is a romantic at heart with a strong desire to always do the right thing. He would like to give hope to the Chinese and Asian ladies with his story and send a message that love eventually finds everybody.
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The Immigrant (part 7) Room of Roses    

By Imi
1876 Views | 7 Comments | 11/22/2015 3:50:08 PM

And there she was, coming through the door and closing it quietly after she had taken a shower. The big towel was wrapped tightly around her body–her clothes were still in the dryer, spinning in the hot air, just like my thoughts spun in my overheated head, quickly and urgently and in need of a cool-down cycle. I sat in a chair in my dry clothes and added to my attire a guitar, setting on my lap as protection (a cooling system) between me and her hot body.



“Nice guitar!” she said. “Is it Spanish?”



“No. I think they call it 'classical,' I said, picking some notes idly.



“Are you any good?” she asked and sat down on the edge of my bed.



Just be cool–be cool, man! I said to myself inwardly. Think about the towel as a winter coat, and that there are thick clothes under it.



“Well, not really. It's only my hobby. My fingers are too short to be a performer,” I said and showed my fingers to her.



“My ex-boyfriend, who was from Columbia, played, too.”



“I bet, he was good,” I said and remembered all those musicians that I saw on the streets and in the subway stations playing with jaw-dropping talent. “He was Spanish; they usually very good on guitar. What happened? Why did you guys break up?”



“He went back to Columbia two years ago. His father wanted him in the family business. We were together for three years.”



I did a quick math in my head as I listened to her. Kristy is twenty-one years old. Her boyfriend left when she was nineteen, so they started going out when she was only sixteen. That was the–



“We both cried when he had to go.” I heard her over my own thoughts. “I even wrote a poem and sent it to him. He didn't reply. I think–”



average age back in Europe when the girls began to date. I had known a few who had already had boyfriends when they were only thirteen, fourteen years old. And there was this girl in my class who got pregnant at the age of thirteen. Girls somehow–



“–in high school, all of them. He had this Honda Civic that he came and picked me up every day after school. My best friend, you know her, the girl who got sick tonight, Sta–”



matured faster than boys did. In Canada, it was different, though. Someone told me, I don't even remember who it was, that girls here were not that more mature in the head than back home. The majority of 25-year-old women here still thought like 16-year-olds in high school. Guys too. He might have been right. Kristy looked very developed. She was a woman outside–that was for sure,–but by the way she talked, I felt as if she was still in school, and speaking to her friends. Gosh! She definitely can talk. I thought, looking at her very kissable lips moving fast.



“–still remember him sometimes. He was a nice guy. Are you okay?” she asked suddenly, and I hoped that put an end to her inundation of words.



“Yes, I am. I was just listening to you about your” (I wanted to say fantastic, but I didn't) “ex-boyfriend.”



“I'm sorry. Have I talked too much about him?”



“It's okay. Apparently, you loved him very much.”



Maybe she is nervous, and that's why she talks too much, I thought. Of course, she is nervous; she's gotten only a towel wrapped around her body, and she is in the room of a man she hardly knows.



“Yes, I guess. But it happened in the past. Now, it's just a nice memory.”



“Would you like to call your mother and let her know where you are?” I asked just to make her more comfortable. “I don't want her to think that you're lost in the thunderstorm.”



While she was talking with her mother on the phone, I checked up on her clothes. They were still a bit damp, so I decided to make some tea for her. I went to the kitchen and inspected the cabinets. I found a few teabags with different flavors. I put a teapot on the stove, and while I was waiting for the water to boil, I found myself wondering, imagining, how nice it would have been if the house and everything in it were mine, including Kristy as my girlfriend or wife and the landlord as my butler. I smiled at that thought and . . .



“Yes, sir. I will call them again.”



“Lauren. How many times have I told you not to call me 'sir'? You can call me anything but 'sir'. I am not that old.”



“Yes . . . but . . . I'm sorry I can't pronounce your name.”



“You can call me by my first name. Can you pronounce my first name?”



“No. I'm sorry.”



“It's Imi. Try to say Jimmy without the 'J' and you'll get it.”



“Imi.”



“There you go. Now, about that flower order. You need to tell them that there is an old guy in the house who is going to open the door when they deliver them. They have to tell Albert, that's his name, that they need to put all the flowers in my old room in the basement where the radiator never works.”



“Yes, Mr. Imi.”



“Lose the 'Mr' too! Thanks. Oh, and Lauren,” I said, turning back to her. “Could you call my mother, please? I'll be in my office.”



What a fortunate man I am! I thought as I stared out the window behind my desk, looking at the CN Tower and the lake behind it. In four short years, I have built up a fitness chain all over the country. If I didn't win that fitness contest back then, probably, I wouldn't be where I am right now.



The first stepping stone was when I opened a small gym in Little Italy with the money that I won. But the big break came when they put my face on the cover of a well-known magazine, and after I had started being the voice on “how to stop the burgeoning obesity in the country.” And for some reason, people even liked my European accent, and it made good for my business.



As a newcomer, it was so evident to my fresh eyes how fat the people were in North America as opposed to the people in Europe. Canadians and Americans didn't even realize how big they were because they got used to the overindulging lifestyle. First, I tried to help the people in my small community to make them understand what they were doing was wrong. I started a diet and training program only for overweight people in my first gym that was so successful that it gradually grew into a multimillion-dollar business.



“Imi.” I heard Lauren's voice through the speaker. “Your mother is on line two.”



“Hi, Mom!” I said, picking up the phone. “How are you? How are your flowers?”



When I began to make real money with my business, the first thing that I did was, build a greenhouse for my mother in her backyard. She didn't ask for money nor a new house. She loved the old one with its good and even bad memories; it was a big part of her life. Her only wish was to be able to work amongst flowers throughout the winter months, too, in a greenhouse. She was a simple woman with a beautiful mind.



“Yes. I'll ask her tonight . . . Yes, I'm nervous a little bit . . . No. I don't even want to think about that . . . Probably, next month . . . Thanks Mom . . . Yes, I'll tell her. Say 'hi' to everyone for me, too! I miss you!”



It was late afternoon when I left the office and headed home. I needed to get ready for the night. There was a question that I planned to ask Kristy. It had been on my mind for weeks. I wasn't sure if she suspected anything at all; I just told her that I would meet her at a French restaurant at 8:00.



As I dried myself with a towel after having taken a shower, my hair dripping, I went downstairs to check on the flowers in my old room. Halfway down the stairs, I already smelled them. Roses were her favorite–multicolored ones. The room was full of them. They were everywhere: on the floor, on the bed, even on the radiator. And that's where I placed the yellow rubber gloves with my surprise, on top of the massive radiator between two bunches of flowers. I looked around, satisfied.



This room was where everything started for me in Canada, I mused, and this was the room I kissed her in for the first time and also where I started to dislike tuna.Tonight, I won't eat tuna; that's for sure.



Kristy was late.



Why is it that women are always late? I would rather be five, ten minutes early than late.



When I saw her coming through the door, it was already fifteen minutes past eight, but it was worth the wait. She had come from work, and her eyes looked tired, and yet she managed to steal a few appreciating glances from the nearby tables as she walked toward me.



“You look lovely, baby,” I said to her after she had sat down. “How was your day?”



“I've been very busy all day long, and you don't have to lie. I know I look awful and tired.”



“If this is when you look awful, then I am a very lucky man. Seriously, you look captivating as always.”



She gave me a cute little smile and said, “You are a terrible liar, but thanks for trying to make me feel better!”



“Kristy, you don't need to work so hard. I make enough money with my business to not worry for a lifetime. Actually, you don't need to work at all.”



“What color is my hair?” she asked suddenly with a slight edge in her voice.



“I'm sorry. I don't understand.”



“Just tell me what color my hair is!”



“It's black, but–”



“That's right. Do you like it?”



“Yes, of course, I love it,” I said, with somewhat bewildered eyes, and feeling myself, all of a sudden, like a small boy who did or said something wrong.



“Then, why do you want me to be a blond bimbo who does nothing but wait for you to come home after work? I know you have money. My stepfather and my mother had money also, but since I started to work, I paid for my room and gave money to my mom for food. I am a woman, but I don't just want to be a woman and live my life in a bubble. Being a world-weary housewife or, in our case, a lazy girlfriend is just not going to cut it for me. I want to be a content woman who experiences life to the fullest. I want to be a successful woman at home and in my professional life. I want to feel alive. Do you understand what I mean?”



“Yes, I understand what you're saying, and telling you the truth, that's what I expected you to say. You don't want to live a half-life as a housewife, as a mere accessory of a rich warder in a flashy prison. You would like to have respect and a name for yourself and perhaps a man who could proudly call you 'my wife'.” I added and searched her eyes for any kind of reaction for the word wife. Disappointingly, there was none.



Kristy was still young, but she was a rare catch. Looking at young Canadian people being very loud in the summertime in their expensive convertibles which weren't theirs, I often wondered at what age they were going to realize that life wasn't a honeypot. Marika did an excellent job not to spoil but raise and teach and prepare Kristy for life. I bet it wasn't easy to correct the wrong behaviors and navigate her through bad influences that she undoubtedly encountered at her schools.



We ate in silence for the rest of the dinner. Her lassitude stopped me from making her even more worn out with small talk. She made an occasional cute smile over her plate as a recognition of my quietude, and as soon as we had finished eating, we headed home.



The surprise was ready in the basement, but as I looked at her from the corner of my eyes, with her head on the headrest of the car seat, I began to think of postponing everything that night and just letting her rest.



“Are you exhausted?” I asked her quietly. “Or can you still handle a small surprise that waits for you at home?”



“You have a surprise for me?”



“Yes, I do, but if you are too tired–”



“When it comes to surprises, I'm never tired,” she said with a revived anticipation in her voice. “Can you tell me what it is?”



I loved it when she was a woman and, at the same time, a child who couldn't wait for her surprise. “No, I'm sorry. You just need to hang on a few minutes longer, and you'll find out.”



The smell of the roses, overwhelmingly intense, struck both of our noses when I opened the front door. Smiling from ear to ear, Kristy rushed to the living room, but instead of finding the flowers there, she only found Albert sleeping on the couch with the TV on.



Suddenly, I heard a strange noise beside Albert's snoring. It reminded me of the sound of a small steam engine. I went to the kitchen where I found Kristy wrapped in a towel with her hair wet.



How did she do that? She was in her clothes a moment ago, and now she–



“The water is boiling in the pot.” Kristy's voice sounded distant. “Imi!” and her fingers felt ice-cold on my skin, when she shook me by my arms and searched my eyes, uneasily.



“Where were you?” she asked after she had ascertained that I was back.



“I'm not sure,” I said and turned the stove off, “maybe in another universe or I might have fallen asleep standing.”



“For at least was it warm where you were? Your room is cold.”



“Yes, I know and I'm sorry. It's a basement room. It's cold in the summer, which is not bad, but it's even colder in the winter when the radiator doesn't work. I'll prepare a hot tea for you, OK?”



“I'd like that, thanks!” she said and moved closer, staring into my eyes. “So tell me where were you, because you were not here that's for sure?”

Copyright owned jointly by Author and CyberCupid Co., Ltd. Breach of copyright will be prosecuted.
Comments
(Showing 1 to 7 of 7) 1
#2015-11-22 15:41:34 by JohnAbbot @JohnAbbot

Imi, Imi, Imi... I do realize that every time you post a blog the conversation seems to keep turning to a focus on your writing rather than on what you have written, and when I opened the blogs to find yours here, my first thought was that I was not going to get caught up in talking about your writing. Basically I am assuming that it must be wearing a little thin having us all discuss the writing instead of the content.

But if you don't want us discussing your writing then stop improving dramatically with every single post.

Commenting on our last post (Part 6), @Macchap wrote:

@Imi
It feels like I'm reading a page from a well-written novel. You have a fine way of writing, visuals of the "scene" appeared in my head. Well done, Sir.

When he said it read to him "like a well written novel" I thought, it's damned good for a blog post, but I don't think it's at the level of a well written novel. But today I stand corrected.

I literally got lost in this piece. I forgot I was reading an Imi blog and, like a good novel, I found myself in the room, admiring the heroine, hoping the towel would fall away without her noticing, wondering what I should say to her next. In other words, I was so into the content that I was seeing it through the main character's eyes. I was living this story through your eyes.

You are indeed a writer Imi. Well done.

#2015-11-22 22:33:11 by Imi5922 @Imi5922

John, thanks for your comments!

Let me answer to you with two sentences from the story "Autumn in Guilin" that I'd like to submit in the near future.

It goes like this: I look at the ability to write in English as a gift. I can't give it to others because it's a gift, but I can show them what I got.

Thank you for your complimentary words again, John and the opportunity for letting me post this blog even though it doesn't fit perfectly into an Asian dating website.

If you look at my name Imi5922, it represents where I stand with my writings. If I started to decrease the number every day by one, it would take me sixteen years to reach 1, which is the trademark number of a good writer here on CLM. I'm with the number 5922, sitting somewhere out there in the cold on the poor and degraded Pluto. I am far away from enlightenment opposed to others who sit close to the sun on Mercury. It would take me sixteen years, traveling through space and time to reach their levels of writing. It's too far and takes a lot of time. I kind of feel good out here, though. I just saw New Horizons whiz by, so I'm cool. Actually, it's a bit cold here right now so I gotta go to put a little bit of heat on the next part. Thanks again. Cheers.

#2015-11-23 08:20:37 by Macchap @Macchap

@Imi5922
@JohnAbbot

What makes a book a good book, a novel? Ask ten people this question and all of them will say something different but what they will say is this: imagination. Does it get into your head capturing your imagination, can you visualize it, are you starting to see images of the scene how it is going to play out? A writer can only do that much but when the reader has no imagination and/or can’t relate to the subject, than to him/her it is just like any another book: paper and ink. But when the reader has some imagination and can relate to its subject – 2x yes – the book comes to life. Now, who said a book can’t be interactive.

Blimey, I’m even getting quoted on CLM. Told you so, John. :P

I thoroughly have enjoyed the seventh chapter of your book, Imi. I got lost in the story, my internal slide projector showed one image after the other, on and on. Great stuff. One thing though, you need to tune your guitar. Leave it in a room where the temperature is stable, else you’ll keep tuning it.

I still want/need to respond to chapter six – to the comments - but in the meantime, keep doing what you enjoy doing.

I’d like to end my comment with the lyrics of a song as performed by the late Chet Baker – Imagination.


Imagination is funny, it makes a cloudy day sunny
Makes a bee think of honey just as I think of you

Imagination is crazy, your whole perspective gets hazy
Starts you asking a daisy "What to do, what to do?"

Have you ever felt a gentle touch and then a kiss
And then and then, find it's only your imagination again?
Oh, well

Imagination is silly, you go around willy-nilly
For example I go around wanting you
And yet I can't imagine that you want me, too

#2015-11-24 05:48:20 by Imi5922 @Imi5922

@Macchap

Thanks for the comments!

All my guitars are tuned in and taken care of, thank you. I'd just need two more pair of hands to play all of them at the same time. Two of them keep getting jealous of my favorite one.

I hope you'll enjoy part 8 as well as much as you enjoyed the last two.

#2015-11-24 15:51:17 by Macchap @Macchap

@Imi5922

About tuning your guitar, I was just kidding; nothing serious.
Looking forward to part 8.

#2015-11-25 12:36:58 by evahuihan @evahuihan

i recalled the fist episode of this blog while reading this 7th one and wondering wether the heroine is the same girl whom the blogger met on a bus on the way to somewhere.anyway its long time ago when i read the fist one and was expecting the next at that time.now i ve read the latest one n quite feel like its a novel.whtever its based of either symthetic or real life its so enchanting to make people keep on reading more n next.i confess i hv to read the ones in between to find out wht i missed.well done.

#2015-11-26 01:50:49 by Imi5922 @Imi5922

@Macchap

I took it as a joke, no worries.


@evahuihan

Thank you for your comments and kind words.
I'm glad you like this story. There's more to come. A little bit different, more romantic and if I could say scarier. I hope John will let me post them. Have a nice day or night or whatever it is over there right now.

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