was more a wrap, and hardly even a dress at all. She’d even
used a sample spray she’d hoarded out of an old Elle, and “Stepped Out,”
feeling dangerous, vivacious, brilliant.
But really, that only lasted so long. The
breaking point for her was the “she’ll do” face from Fuck-You-Boston. Sad
face my ass. If I could find a stupid
I-don’t-give-two-shits-because-I-loathe-you-you-mouthbreathing-meathead, Mr.
Red Sox asshole, I’d use it. Probably one out there somewhere too.
“Boston Face,” she said out loud, and put a
hand over her mouth, giggling even though no one was around. Drunk. Shit.
That was when that little voice in her head
decided to chime in, the one that always asked whether she’d left the stove on,
or if she had her keys with her. That little snide voice that said it knew
about looking after her better than she did.
“Bus fare?” it whispered, sounding not a
little like her mother, but a little more cruel.
“Fuck,” she said to the little voice, and
out loud. She grabbed her purse with its stupid buzzing chiming phone and dug
through it, and as always it offered up everything she could possibly need
except the one thing she wanted while she cursed at it in her head. But even as
her hand wrapped around the little change purse inside, she had a sinking
feeling and a half memory of her blushing to the bartender and dropping a few
dollars into his jar, proud of her own self-control. Or, well, her poverty as
means of self-control. Aren’t I a smart cookie, she’d been thinking at
the time. Don’t I know how to look after myself. I can cut myself off …
cause … well … I can’t afford another drink.
“Fuck,” she said again, quietly. She
rattled the coin purse in her hand while that little voice told her how much of
a smart cookie it thought she actually was. A quarter short. Well …
shit.
I just want to go home , she said to that voice and the rain and the lack of buses and the
cold. She sneezed. I just want to go home. Why, oh why do you punish a poor
girl so? And sneezed again.
She’d caught that look out of the corner of
her eye. That “She’ll do” look. It’s one of those faces a girl isn’t supposed
to catch when it’s shared between a pack of testicles. The pack in question had
retreated to their own table for a moment, leaving the Raging B1tches of ACOA
Electronics and Services to their high fives and shots, and she could see the
“guys” talking among themselves, looking over at the “gals,” separating them
like a pack usually does. Calling dibs. Boston had been looking her up and down
(and that had pissed her off even more, that he was either too drunk or too …
fucking ... man to not see that she could see him looking at her), his
eyes running up and down her oriental wrap, her perfectly set curls, her
breasts (of course), and the rest of her, putting her on the scale in his head. You reject me cause you think I’m fat , I will fucking kill
you, she’d caught herself thinking, and refused to shift her legs on the
stool, even though one had fallen asleep. She continued to pretend that she
wasn’t aware of being measured by his scale, or felt up with hypothetical hands
in his own imagination. Already, her own hypothetical Boston in her bed doing
wicked things clumsily was fading rather fucking quickly, being replaced with
old faithful, reliable Mr. Rabbit, and some reading material. Oh, Peter
Rabbit, she’d thought while Boston tried to stay on his feet while
fantasizing on her from his table, You go through too many batteries these
days. And then she saw Boston shrug. That shrug and look on his face that
said, “Guess she’ll do for tonight” That’s it. She’d stumbled to her
feet. That’s fucking it. Cheque, please. She’d wobbled away from the
table, half from her whole leg being asleep, half from wine-weave.
“Be back.” And Jenny had been going to go
with her, for a little calling dibs themselves and a philosophical discussion
of asses in
used a sample spray she’d hoarded out of an old Elle, and “Stepped Out,”
feeling dangerous, vivacious, brilliant.
But really, that only lasted so long. The
breaking point for her was the “she’ll do” face from Fuck-You-Boston. Sad
face my ass. If I could find a stupid
I-don’t-give-two-shits-because-I-loathe-you-you-mouthbreathing-meathead, Mr.
Red Sox asshole, I’d use it. Probably one out there somewhere too.
“Boston Face,” she said out loud, and put a
hand over her mouth, giggling even though no one was around. Drunk. Shit.
That was when that little voice in her head
decided to chime in, the one that always asked whether she’d left the stove on,
or if she had her keys with her. That little snide voice that said it knew
about looking after her better than she did.
“Bus fare?” it whispered, sounding not a
little like her mother, but a little more cruel.
“Fuck,” she said to the little voice, and
out loud. She grabbed her purse with its stupid buzzing chiming phone and dug
through it, and as always it offered up everything she could possibly need
except the one thing she wanted while she cursed at it in her head. But even as
her hand wrapped around the little change purse inside, she had a sinking
feeling and a half memory of her blushing to the bartender and dropping a few
dollars into his jar, proud of her own self-control. Or, well, her poverty as
means of self-control. Aren’t I a smart cookie, she’d been thinking at
the time. Don’t I know how to look after myself. I can cut myself off …
cause … well … I can’t afford another drink.
“Fuck,” she said again, quietly. She
rattled the coin purse in her hand while that little voice told her how much of
a smart cookie it thought she actually was. A quarter short. Well …
shit.
I just want to go home , she said to that voice and the rain and the lack of buses and the
cold. She sneezed. I just want to go home. Why, oh why do you punish a poor
girl so? And sneezed again.
She’d caught that look out of the corner of
her eye. That “She’ll do” look. It’s one of those faces a girl isn’t supposed
to catch when it’s shared between a pack of testicles. The pack in question had
retreated to their own table for a moment, leaving the Raging B1tches of ACOA
Electronics and Services to their high fives and shots, and she could see the
“guys” talking among themselves, looking over at the “gals,” separating them
like a pack usually does. Calling dibs. Boston had been looking her up and down
(and that had pissed her off even more, that he was either too drunk or too …
fucking ... man to not see that she could see him looking at her), his
eyes running up and down her oriental wrap, her perfectly set curls, her
breasts (of course), and the rest of her, putting her on the scale in his head. You reject me cause you think I’m fat , I will fucking kill
you, she’d caught herself thinking, and refused to shift her legs on the
stool, even though one had fallen asleep. She continued to pretend that she
wasn’t aware of being measured by his scale, or felt up with hypothetical hands
in his own imagination. Already, her own hypothetical Boston in her bed doing
wicked things clumsily was fading rather fucking quickly, being replaced with
old faithful, reliable Mr. Rabbit, and some reading material. Oh, Peter
Rabbit, she’d thought while Boston tried to stay on his feet while
fantasizing on her from his table, You go through too many batteries these
days. And then she saw Boston shrug. That shrug and look on his face that
said, “Guess she’ll do for tonight” That’s it. She’d stumbled to her
feet. That’s fucking it. Cheque, please. She’d wobbled away from the
table, half from her whole leg being asleep, half from wine-weave.
“Be back.” And Jenny had been going to go
with her, for a little calling dibs themselves and a philosophical discussion
of asses in
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