Snickers bar beat a Nestle's Crunch. I smiled at the memories… then rolled over and went back to sleep.
Even after I finally woke up, I avoided Jack. When he rapped softly on my door, I pretended to be sleeping. All I could do was pray he would go out before I descended the staircase in my best dress—most decidedly not sequins!
At six o'clock, I put on my red silk dress with its mandarin collar. It's actually a hand-me-down from Nan, who bought it in Hong Kong. When I wear it, I feel exotic. It says "Fuck me"—but says it in a unique "way. You know how "when you're eighteen, you think fuck-me clothes are all about tits and how high your skirt is? The height of your stilettos? When you get a little older, you realize it's about mystery.
My hair had decided not to cooperate. It didn't say "Fuck me" as much as "I've been fucking all day long and just rolled out of bed"—which wasn't true. The humidity was cloying. The "misery index" was high. The misery index was created, I think, for New Orleans. The weather forecaster on the five o'clock news noted that with the temperature and the humidity it was really a hundred and ten degrees in the shade, therefore misery-inducing, and then some. So my hair was going to overtake my entire head. Nothing I could do short of shaving it off.
I poked my head out of my room and, seeing no sign of Jack, dashed down the hall to Nan's room. I tapped on the door.
"Nan?"
"Come in, Georgia."
I entered her room and twirled around for her.
"My Hong Kong dress!" she said admiringly. "You look stunning, dear. Stunning. That man is not going to be able to eat, looking at you."
"Can I borrow your black shawl in case the restaurant is cold?"
"Sure, honey."
The black shawl was once my great-grandmother's. I love vintage clothes, and I am always grateful my great-grandmother was close to my height, with timeless taste in fashion, just like Nan.
Nan opened an antique armoire and pulled it out, its lacy stitches looking like a delicate fine-spun spiderweb. "Here you go, Georgie."
I wrapped the shawl around my shoulders. "What do you think?"
"Smashing. Have you told Jack you're going yet?"
I looked at her and plopped down on a velvet tufted hassock.
"How did you guess?"
"Please. I'm pushing eighty years old, Georgia. You think I don't know what's going on under my very roof?"
"It just happened, Nan. We didn't plan it. But somehow it doesn't feel right… Besides, if things fall apart, it will just create problems."
"Sometimes we do that," she said, sitting down in her chair.
"What do you mean?"
"Sometimes we create problems as a way of forcing ourselves out of our own inertia. If things with the band become complicated, you might make some different decisions."
"So what are you saying? That I'm sabotaging the band?"
"No. That you have a destiny you need to fulfill. As my yogi once said to me, 'We create the ripples on our own pond.'"
"You know, Nan—" I stood up "—I adore you, but there are times I wish you were just a polite grandma who drank tea and ate little biscotti and handed me a quarter each time you saw me. Instead of being so wise it's scary."
"Well, come give your polite old grandmother a kiss, and I'll give you a quarter."
I laughed and bent over and kissed her cheek and went back down the hall to my room. I put a dab of Chanel No. 5 on each wrist and in the hollow of my neck. And then for good measure on the back of each knee. I slipped on my best pair of black heels and put on a pearl choker. Placing a few things into a small evening bag, I turned off the light to my room and crept downstairs. Still no sign of Jack.
The queens were in the living room. I walked in and spread my arms wide. "Well, ladies?"
Dominique stood up, "Will you look at you, Miss Sequins. Decked out in… dare I say, vintage?"
"Yes." I twirled.
"On the fuckable scale of one to ten, you're a ten, doll baby. I won't expect you home until after breakfast," she laughed. Dominique cracks herself
Even after I finally woke up, I avoided Jack. When he rapped softly on my door, I pretended to be sleeping. All I could do was pray he would go out before I descended the staircase in my best dress—most decidedly not sequins!
At six o'clock, I put on my red silk dress with its mandarin collar. It's actually a hand-me-down from Nan, who bought it in Hong Kong. When I wear it, I feel exotic. It says "Fuck me"—but says it in a unique "way. You know how "when you're eighteen, you think fuck-me clothes are all about tits and how high your skirt is? The height of your stilettos? When you get a little older, you realize it's about mystery.
My hair had decided not to cooperate. It didn't say "Fuck me" as much as "I've been fucking all day long and just rolled out of bed"—which wasn't true. The humidity was cloying. The "misery index" was high. The misery index was created, I think, for New Orleans. The weather forecaster on the five o'clock news noted that with the temperature and the humidity it was really a hundred and ten degrees in the shade, therefore misery-inducing, and then some. So my hair was going to overtake my entire head. Nothing I could do short of shaving it off.
I poked my head out of my room and, seeing no sign of Jack, dashed down the hall to Nan's room. I tapped on the door.
"Nan?"
"Come in, Georgia."
I entered her room and twirled around for her.
"My Hong Kong dress!" she said admiringly. "You look stunning, dear. Stunning. That man is not going to be able to eat, looking at you."
"Can I borrow your black shawl in case the restaurant is cold?"
"Sure, honey."
The black shawl was once my great-grandmother's. I love vintage clothes, and I am always grateful my great-grandmother was close to my height, with timeless taste in fashion, just like Nan.
Nan opened an antique armoire and pulled it out, its lacy stitches looking like a delicate fine-spun spiderweb. "Here you go, Georgie."
I wrapped the shawl around my shoulders. "What do you think?"
"Smashing. Have you told Jack you're going yet?"
I looked at her and plopped down on a velvet tufted hassock.
"How did you guess?"
"Please. I'm pushing eighty years old, Georgia. You think I don't know what's going on under my very roof?"
"It just happened, Nan. We didn't plan it. But somehow it doesn't feel right… Besides, if things fall apart, it will just create problems."
"Sometimes we do that," she said, sitting down in her chair.
"What do you mean?"
"Sometimes we create problems as a way of forcing ourselves out of our own inertia. If things with the band become complicated, you might make some different decisions."
"So what are you saying? That I'm sabotaging the band?"
"No. That you have a destiny you need to fulfill. As my yogi once said to me, 'We create the ripples on our own pond.'"
"You know, Nan—" I stood up "—I adore you, but there are times I wish you were just a polite grandma who drank tea and ate little biscotti and handed me a quarter each time you saw me. Instead of being so wise it's scary."
"Well, come give your polite old grandmother a kiss, and I'll give you a quarter."
I laughed and bent over and kissed her cheek and went back down the hall to my room. I put a dab of Chanel No. 5 on each wrist and in the hollow of my neck. And then for good measure on the back of each knee. I slipped on my best pair of black heels and put on a pearl choker. Placing a few things into a small evening bag, I turned off the light to my room and crept downstairs. Still no sign of Jack.
The queens were in the living room. I walked in and spread my arms wide. "Well, ladies?"
Dominique stood up, "Will you look at you, Miss Sequins. Decked out in… dare I say, vintage?"
"Yes." I twirled.
"On the fuckable scale of one to ten, you're a ten, doll baby. I won't expect you home until after breakfast," she laughed. Dominique cracks herself
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