into her in the crosswalk, and just kept going? It's questions like these that drove Jessica to the bottle last night.
Not the questions, per se, but her fear of never having an opportunity to hear them answered.
So what's her poison? Jessica has no idea. She drank her mother's zin because that was all her parents had in the fridge. It's been so long since she was in a bar that she can't settle on what to order once she gets there. She recalls a time when she tried to impress or maybe intimidate the opposite sex with her masculine
requests for brutal shots of whiskey. She'd tip her head back, down the shot in a single gulp, shake off the fire in her chest, place the shot glass mouth-down, then wait, never too long, for a male onlooker to order another round. Now, just a few years later, she's embarrassed by the very idea of that lonely girl at the bar who wasn't fooling anybody. Not even herself.
"MISS!"
The insistence of this voice, and the impression that it's gaining on her, is what compels her to slow down. Maybe I've got the face of a "ma'am" but the ass of a "miss,"
she muses. In retribution for the compliment she's just paid her ass, she's now half expecting a kind stranger to tell her that she's tucked the toilet seat cover into her jeans and it's trailing behind her like an unhygienic peplum. This is what she's thinking when she turns to see two Port Authority police officers flanking ... Marcus Flutie.
The earth rumbles.
Collapses beneath her feet.
The stable foundation she has painstakingly constructed since their breakup (and hastily reassembled after their earlier run-in) has been instantly and powerfully unmoored.
She wobbles in her sneakers.
She wants to shout, "Don't panic, everyone! It's just my world being pulled out from under me!"
She searches through the rubble for a rational explanation that will explain this second run-in with Marcus Flutie in as many hours, digging for a grounding bit of evidence that will help her recalibrate and retain a semblance of control.
"Excuse me, miss," the first officer says. "This man claims to know you. He says he's waiting for you."
Marcus is still here. And so is she.
"Do you know this man? Or do we have a security issue here?" barks the pit bull.
"No," Jessica croaks, still reeling. The answer isn't the right one, and alarm careens across Marcus's face. She zeroes in on that split seam in Marcus's sweater, the tiny thread. Jessica thinks of a song she hasn't heard in years by a band she was never that into, though she did think the lead singer was tortured and adorable in a geek-cute kind of way, a way, it is worth noting, that Marcus Flutie himself is flaunting these days. What were the lyrics? If you want to destroy my sweater ... Hold this thread as I walk away ...
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
That tiny thread from a cashmere sweater she suspects—no, knows for certain—was purchased by an ex or current lover becomes the metaphorical tether to which Jessica decides to grab.
"No, this is not a security issue." Jessica clutches a hand to her throat, clears it. "Yes, I know him," she says more firmly. "His name is Marcus Armstrong Flutie." She then turns to the first officer, switches on a smile. "And he's with me." She pivots toward Marcus, puts her hands on her hips, and says in perfect exasperation, "Where have you been? I've been waiting for you forever."
"I was waiting for you," Marcus says. "The whole time."
Marcus holds up his palms in apology. Jessica can feel in her cheeks that her grin takes the risk of going a little too far, a little too eager to please, as if she's a tuneless naff desperate for fame who has just auditioned for a community theater production of The Sound of Music and knows Maria is out of the question, and Liesl is a long shot, but maybe, just maybe, she could be one of the nuns in the abbey, and oh, if the directors just give her this shot, they won't regret it, she
Not the questions, per se, but her fear of never having an opportunity to hear them answered.
So what's her poison? Jessica has no idea. She drank her mother's zin because that was all her parents had in the fridge. It's been so long since she was in a bar that she can't settle on what to order once she gets there. She recalls a time when she tried to impress or maybe intimidate the opposite sex with her masculine
requests for brutal shots of whiskey. She'd tip her head back, down the shot in a single gulp, shake off the fire in her chest, place the shot glass mouth-down, then wait, never too long, for a male onlooker to order another round. Now, just a few years later, she's embarrassed by the very idea of that lonely girl at the bar who wasn't fooling anybody. Not even herself.
"MISS!"
The insistence of this voice, and the impression that it's gaining on her, is what compels her to slow down. Maybe I've got the face of a "ma'am" but the ass of a "miss,"
she muses. In retribution for the compliment she's just paid her ass, she's now half expecting a kind stranger to tell her that she's tucked the toilet seat cover into her jeans and it's trailing behind her like an unhygienic peplum. This is what she's thinking when she turns to see two Port Authority police officers flanking ... Marcus Flutie.
The earth rumbles.
Collapses beneath her feet.
The stable foundation she has painstakingly constructed since their breakup (and hastily reassembled after their earlier run-in) has been instantly and powerfully unmoored.
She wobbles in her sneakers.
She wants to shout, "Don't panic, everyone! It's just my world being pulled out from under me!"
She searches through the rubble for a rational explanation that will explain this second run-in with Marcus Flutie in as many hours, digging for a grounding bit of evidence that will help her recalibrate and retain a semblance of control.
"Excuse me, miss," the first officer says. "This man claims to know you. He says he's waiting for you."
Marcus is still here. And so is she.
"Do you know this man? Or do we have a security issue here?" barks the pit bull.
"No," Jessica croaks, still reeling. The answer isn't the right one, and alarm careens across Marcus's face. She zeroes in on that split seam in Marcus's sweater, the tiny thread. Jessica thinks of a song she hasn't heard in years by a band she was never that into, though she did think the lead singer was tortured and adorable in a geek-cute kind of way, a way, it is worth noting, that Marcus Flutie himself is flaunting these days. What were the lyrics? If you want to destroy my sweater ... Hold this thread as I walk away ...
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
That tiny thread from a cashmere sweater she suspects—no, knows for certain—was purchased by an ex or current lover becomes the metaphorical tether to which Jessica decides to grab.
"No, this is not a security issue." Jessica clutches a hand to her throat, clears it. "Yes, I know him," she says more firmly. "His name is Marcus Armstrong Flutie." She then turns to the first officer, switches on a smile. "And he's with me." She pivots toward Marcus, puts her hands on her hips, and says in perfect exasperation, "Where have you been? I've been waiting for you forever."
"I was waiting for you," Marcus says. "The whole time."
Marcus holds up his palms in apology. Jessica can feel in her cheeks that her grin takes the risk of going a little too far, a little too eager to please, as if she's a tuneless naff desperate for fame who has just auditioned for a community theater production of The Sound of Music and knows Maria is out of the question, and Liesl is a long shot, but maybe, just maybe, she could be one of the nuns in the abbey, and oh, if the directors just give her this shot, they won't regret it, she
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