The walk from the cab to the door is so much slower. Oppressive heat. I will fall down, later, but not right now. Falling down is what I fear but do not think, here at the beginning, that my fears will come to fruition.
My dress does not stretch to meet my needs. It does not quite cover the black strapless and threatens to flash the flesh colored Playboy boy shorts pulled in to place to protect the world from my erotically staged tattoos. A tight tube of black crochet and dangerous heels. Flaming curls and lip gloss.
The walk from the cab to the door is so much slower. We saunter inside, our mini-entourage of misfits. Fumbling for ID, for money, for tickets. Bewildered by requests we knew would be made of us. We blink at the candlelight, freezing for one second before paving the way to the patio.
A bar has been erected outside. There stand people I know, people I have known, people who will soon forget me if he ever actually tells anyone he is no longer in my life. I speak at them, the same gibberish bullshit I have been spouting all day long. The heat and the once an hour whiskey has me thoroughly bummed out. I am tired of talking shit and taking it from people gargling marbles. My brain had a break today, all day. I want to turn back on. I am happy in the company of those I keep, but I feel like I am waiting for someone, for something. A drink, for now, will do. We sprawl out in the weather as everyone else chooses the ten degree temperature departure inside. I scan for him, for them, really, the one I want to see, and the one I want to talk to. I would like a do over. to meet again, for the first time. Would I do it all again? Would I do it all over again? Would I do the one and not the other? Did I even have a choice? I will find out later, before I fall on the floor, that no, I never had a choice. Rejection will fall gently, somewhat on dead ears. It's all rose petals and absinthe in this place.
The walk from the table into the bar is so much slower. I am hindered by heels stuck to the bottom of giraffe legs. Uneasy, shapely stilts. the legs of the insured. the legs of the assured. Legs that stop traffic and move ships. I am told, and do believe. That fact will not save me from self consciousness and those more casually dressed.
He is not here, but will be. He also, is not here, but will be. I am comfortable with this knowledge as I hug the bar, my drink, a smoke. the buzz makes me warm, comfortable. I will be surprised later at the angry marks on my feet. I feel nothing right now, no pain. Not even when I fall, which does happen, later.
He appears, a mirage, halfway through my first drink. He looks so good to me, so bad for me, so bad to me. He thinks me self centered, not selfish, self assured, not stuck up, Unaware of anything going on around me. He is right. I am generous in the right lighting, the right mood. These are the things he hates about me. That I do not need him to tell me how to look pretty at myself, that I know when to draw a cartoon or bring him a cookie. He wants me to forget how to behave because he forgot how to not be an asshole.
He hugs me, I look passed him, now that he is here, I am bored with the concept of his arrival. wrapped in a cocoon of inebriation, I breath and watch, waiting for whatever I am waiting for to reveal itself. I know it's a person, male, but otherwise, I am in the dark.
My friends are bored. We move around, trying to get comfortable, cats in a patch of sun. I am always happy around people. I am never trying to find a fuck. or a husband. they always find me, eventually. Tonight I tower over the masses. Some bitch with funny hair and a painted face looks at me like I am the freak. Men part the seas. I have the eyes of the blind: for no one.
The walk from the bar to him, the him, the other him, is so much slower. The answer to my question is revealed in the form of a friend. He looks good, too, without needing the tie or the hair gel. A pipe dream. A pipe. I made him a cartoon once about being my drug dealer. I still have some pot, hash. the silent killer of so many love-times. I stopped being a hypocrite and put away my rolling papers.
Hover. He sits, I sit. He stands, I stand. I shiver and sigh and shimmy like a sex worker. Two drinks in and is there anyone in this fucking bar? I look to my right, he is there, I look up, he is here, I look to my left and am assaulted by the look of the glum. I shrug and turn back to where the center seems to lie. The guys go outside, I sit and chew on and spit out words as my mind wanders to where they have gone. Outside.
The walk from the bar to the patio is so much slower. My friend, he takes me in, seemingly for the first time all night. In that moment this dress was a good choice. The other one, he gave me a cursory once over. No love there. I look good, after he looks good.
The heat sucks. I say as much. We can smoke inside, so why don't we? He is so sober, I am so fucked. Not quite fucked up yet, but well on my way. It occurs to me at this point that there may be more to life than watching this bartender out of the corner of my eye while sitting on a stool trying not to fidget.
My focus is dragged back to what he is telling me, about a boring girl who is good in bed and why everything ends after two months and how nice it is to stick your dick in someone. I ask pertinent questions and here lies that soft rejection wrapped in an arm full of compliments. He has been waiting for her all night. she doesn't show. I don't feel bad for anyone involved. I know that tonight I could get what I want in a very small dose, but he knows that I don't want that, will never want that in any dose not lethal, so we will sit and chat and I will drink and the chasm will close up, maybe once and for all.
People move in and the conversation stops. for a moment phantom traces of cocaine flashbacks cloud my blood and I have too much energy. It is hot, my heart palpitates and I decide that one of my female companions must learn to waltz. now. She is as drunk as I am, so dipping her proves impossible, and this, this is the moment where I fall down. I do not laugh as it is not funny. embarrassing and made so much worse when I look up to meet the disapproving eyes of the bartender. I am tired and ashamed. He doesn't even have to say all of the things he says. I know. I sit in silence. Overwhelmed by the need to fuck off. Girl and boy friend bond. I let them, someone should be happy, get lucky, tonight.
The walk from the bar to his car is so much faster. He drops me off, attempting to push away my sadness with words to admonish the bartender, a hug, a joke. He goes on to take girl home. what happens next in their story, I do not know, am not allowed to care. I sit and smoke with my friends as the arrive on the stoop one by one, telling my tale. Each offers words of wisdom against the bartender and fists of single friends I should be perfect for. Inside is so hot. I can't stay here. So I make a phone call and try not to pass out. He drives by a few times, my friends don't bother to tell me. He honks, angry. It is 3:30 AM.
the walk from the house to his car is so much faster. I apologize for my friends, while he spits insults at their retreating, oblivious figures. I apologize again for falling, trying my hardest to come off more sober than I could possibly be. We find our final destination. I sway with my cigarette letting his words, the I love yous wash over me and fall to the ground. I should not be here right now, but right now I don't know where else I should be. the walk from his side inside is so much faster. My head hit the pillow, cool sheets, familiar walls. I will deal with this tomorrow. right now, I just want to forget all about falling and falling down.