hadn’t owned a car in years, and liked it fine.
She crossed mid-block, heading east. In high school, she and her friends used to come here, Clark and Belmont, to visit the head shops and thrift stores, play at being punks in the Alley. Back then Mohawks didn’t draw a second glance, and most everyone had a biker jacket. Now it was expensive boutiques, the old army surplus rebuilt into a multistory chrome thing that belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest . Nice enough, but she missed the grimy feel the area used to have. Not truly dangerous, but fit for a little wild-side walking.
Speaking of . . .
The thought ambushed her again. Ever since Alex had showed up at her door, full of arguments and plans, every so often the reality of what they were doing would yank the world out from under her. She’d be going through her day, talking on the phone, helping a couple plan their honeymoon, sunlight through the front windows, everything normal, and then— wham! —all of a sudden she’d remember that tomorrow night she was going to be wearing a mask and holding a gun.
And each time it happened, a delicious shiver ran up her spine.
It was scary, sure. But in that good way. Sometimes she didn’t want a guy to be gentle, to touch her softly and whisper in her ear. Sometimes she wanted him to shove her face-first on the mattress and slide into her hard, to have one hand yanking her hips back and the other twisted in her hair, to do it rough and fierce and primal, without all the gloss. To drive the bed across the floor and knock the books off the shelves. Maybe not the most feminist desire, but there it was.
The thrift shop was hipster heaven, complete with retro furniture, silly gifts—who actually wanted a Jesus action figure?—and punked-out counter staff, each posing harder than the last. She checked her purse with a girl sporting a twice-pierced lip, got a laminated picture of Chuck Norris in return, and moved to the racks of clothes.
After the dinner party, Alex had asked if she wanted to come up, and she’d almost said yes. The whole adventure had her charged, and while he was a good lover to begin with, under the circumstances, it would have been something else entirely. But in the end, she’d mumbled an excuse about needing sleep. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him; she did, on one or two levels. But it just didn’t feel right anymore. It was like she’d been sleepwalking the last years. Now that she’d been slapped awake, she didn’t intend to let that feeling go.
Jenn picked through the racks, looking for simple, dark clothing, unremarkable, settling on faded jeans and a couple of work shirts, the stitching worn. The shoe selection was limited, but it was easier buying footwear that purposefully wasn’t supposed to fit.
Mitch had surprised her that night, coming up with good ideas, practical points they hadn’t thought of. Not only that, but he’d pushed back against Alex, told him to fuck off. She wasn’t one of those women turned on by chest beating, but it was good to see him stand up for himself.
Of course, he’s doing this for you.
Not true, she argued with herself. Well, maybe a little bit true, but it wasn’t like she had asked him to, had batted her eyes or put on a simpering voice. She’d even told him it was all right if he didn’t want to go along, and she’d meant it.
Still.
Well, OK, so what? Certainly was a contrast to what she’d grown accustomed to, the emotional distance so many men cultivated. Alex was a good guy, but he’d gone out of his way to make sure they stayed a secret. It was kind of nice to have someone not just wanting her, but also doing something for her. Risking himself. Another feminist paradox—the last thing she was after was a man who didn’t respect her strength, but what woman didn’t secretly relish knowing a guy would stand up if called on?
Enough . First things first. Once they were done with Johnny Love, once life had settled into a
She crossed mid-block, heading east. In high school, she and her friends used to come here, Clark and Belmont, to visit the head shops and thrift stores, play at being punks in the Alley. Back then Mohawks didn’t draw a second glance, and most everyone had a biker jacket. Now it was expensive boutiques, the old army surplus rebuilt into a multistory chrome thing that belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest . Nice enough, but she missed the grimy feel the area used to have. Not truly dangerous, but fit for a little wild-side walking.
Speaking of . . .
The thought ambushed her again. Ever since Alex had showed up at her door, full of arguments and plans, every so often the reality of what they were doing would yank the world out from under her. She’d be going through her day, talking on the phone, helping a couple plan their honeymoon, sunlight through the front windows, everything normal, and then— wham! —all of a sudden she’d remember that tomorrow night she was going to be wearing a mask and holding a gun.
And each time it happened, a delicious shiver ran up her spine.
It was scary, sure. But in that good way. Sometimes she didn’t want a guy to be gentle, to touch her softly and whisper in her ear. Sometimes she wanted him to shove her face-first on the mattress and slide into her hard, to have one hand yanking her hips back and the other twisted in her hair, to do it rough and fierce and primal, without all the gloss. To drive the bed across the floor and knock the books off the shelves. Maybe not the most feminist desire, but there it was.
The thrift shop was hipster heaven, complete with retro furniture, silly gifts—who actually wanted a Jesus action figure?—and punked-out counter staff, each posing harder than the last. She checked her purse with a girl sporting a twice-pierced lip, got a laminated picture of Chuck Norris in return, and moved to the racks of clothes.
After the dinner party, Alex had asked if she wanted to come up, and she’d almost said yes. The whole adventure had her charged, and while he was a good lover to begin with, under the circumstances, it would have been something else entirely. But in the end, she’d mumbled an excuse about needing sleep. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him; she did, on one or two levels. But it just didn’t feel right anymore. It was like she’d been sleepwalking the last years. Now that she’d been slapped awake, she didn’t intend to let that feeling go.
Jenn picked through the racks, looking for simple, dark clothing, unremarkable, settling on faded jeans and a couple of work shirts, the stitching worn. The shoe selection was limited, but it was easier buying footwear that purposefully wasn’t supposed to fit.
Mitch had surprised her that night, coming up with good ideas, practical points they hadn’t thought of. Not only that, but he’d pushed back against Alex, told him to fuck off. She wasn’t one of those women turned on by chest beating, but it was good to see him stand up for himself.
Of course, he’s doing this for you.
Not true, she argued with herself. Well, maybe a little bit true, but it wasn’t like she had asked him to, had batted her eyes or put on a simpering voice. She’d even told him it was all right if he didn’t want to go along, and she’d meant it.
Still.
Well, OK, so what? Certainly was a contrast to what she’d grown accustomed to, the emotional distance so many men cultivated. Alex was a good guy, but he’d gone out of his way to make sure they stayed a secret. It was kind of nice to have someone not just wanting her, but also doing something for her. Risking himself. Another feminist paradox—the last thing she was after was a man who didn’t respect her strength, but what woman didn’t secretly relish knowing a guy would stand up if called on?
Enough . First things first. Once they were done with Johnny Love, once life had settled into a
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