Sunday, July 15, 2007

impiety

the phone buzzes sporadically on the table top, rotating in its own chaotic circle with each vibration.

"ugh, who is it this time? another project?" b asks, taking another sip of her cocktail.

a smiles, glancing down at the spinning phone.

"oh just the one from new york. 212 area code."

"a, you really need to stop torturing these poor animals."

"it's not torture! it's just harmless fun. they have no idea that they mean nothing," a shrugs, opening the phone to reject the call, sending it to her condescending voice mail.

"that has to be the fifth one in two weeks, dude."

b and a sit on the outside veranda, cooled by the overhead misters, the sun's blaring heat subsiding with the wane of the day. bustling conversations from the people inside the restaurant echo outdoors, with passersby shifting their shopping bags and day's purchases contemplating which bistro or steak house or bar to select for that night. the outdoor mall was fairly new.

a slips her tired feet in and out of her worn heels, tracing her finger along the rim of her glass. an alert to a new voicemail buzzes to her attention.

"i know. that's the trouble with consorting with morons...you need at least five to fill the space that a normal run of the mill man would fill."


b smirks and eyes one of two businessmen sitting at the bar a few feet away inside.


"don't be so cruel then, cast at least a couple lose. it can't be too fair letting them think they even have a chance."


"and why should i be merciful? i didn't see any mercy at my sentencing," a flips her hair back and stares at the stem of her wine glass. b stifles a groan, instead releasing a sigh.


"when are you going to let that go a? you need to get past all the shit j put you through. just move on."


"isn't that what i'm doing? fucking all of these gorgeous idiots? wouldn't you say that's moving on?" a starts. "j is dead to me. as dead no doubt as his new girlfriend is in bed under him."


b knows to back down, as usual. she purses her lips and looks back at the businessmen at the bar, both of them now checking out the two girls. a sighs.


"i don't care about him anymore b. it's done."


b downs the remainder of her drink then gets her purse and keys together.


"just keep telling yourself that a, everytime a stallion asks for your number and you hesitate because his face pops up in your peripherals." she tucks a's arm under hers and heads toward the bar.


approaching the two men, b quickly hashes out dibs on the taller blonde, while a accepts the lesser, younger looking brunette of the two. after all, it was a's turn to aquiesce tonight.

"there's no better medicine than the sweet morphine of a one night stand," b mutters in a's ear, before putting her game face on and introducing herself as christine.


far away in a's mind, past her flirtatious smile and lingering handshake with ian, a law intern, age 25, far away there she sits. biding her time before the emptiness is complete, and all she ever has to feel again is ian's hungry thrusts against her frame.


she stands before the impass a broken woman. the few who know what lies beyond the vacancies of her eyes are shadowed memories, disappeared from her world with sullen looks and cold stances. all that remains is the same empty stare, the hands who no longer grasp for feeling, the tears that no longer fall. all that remains of her is dust, responsive only to the mirthless winds that disperse her in this life.

Friday, July 06, 2007

once a whore, you're nothing more

putting her clothes back on as he sits watching from the chair in the corner, it hits her like the drugs injected into her system minutes before that this is what a whore feels.

shamefully she searches through the knotted white sheets for her bra, lost in the battle with her conscience. she skims through the rubble of her defeated pride, trying to find her top in the process.

he watches her, not bothering himself to get dressed. he sees the soft back arched in passion only moments before bending down, stooped slightly with motion to hide from the dim light. after a few minutes watching her frustration grow, he points to the black lace cast on the floor. she nods in thanks.

she can't figure out why she is still shaking. is it the cold?

the moonlight smiles upon her glowing skin, grazing her collarbone, skimming her small breasts and stomach. she realizes her exposure and clasps her recovered dress to her chest. more than the physical is exposed in this tragic post-coital dance home.

"i'm going to use your bathroom," she mumbles, her voice hoarse from previous screams egged on at his insistence.

"take your time beautiful."

it's a nice hotel room. the air conditioner ticks on and off every few minutes. the beds are clean. no bible in the drawer. she looked.

the bathroom lights are pretty and round, the kind you see in movie star dressing rooms; or at least that's how she imagined them. clicking the door shut behind her, she silently sinks to the cool floor, her still clutched dress absorbing her insides released through her muted tears. running mascara completes the illusion of trashy deliverance. why is it that the only thing she can think of is two summers ago?

the random picture show in her mind of days spent at canyon bonfires and running through sprinklers has no place in a hotel bathroom. she slows her breathing and grabs for the toilet paper. wipes her memory away. the smell of fireworks clouds her head. the feel of soft skin prods at her heart.

after composing herself, she emerges fully clothed, and sees him, still in his chair, with a lit cigarette glowing and dying in the dark. on the bed sits a very familiar diamond bracelet she had eyed only 4 hours earlier.

"that's for you."

she stares down at the glittering stars fallen to earth masquerading as diamonds.

"i don't accept gifts."

"you wanted it before."

"that was before sleeping with you."

he looks thoughtfully at this young, flushed girl, who was certainly a woman only a few minutes ago. where did the ravishing woman go, the woman who at dinner played with his ego, daring to be brazen in her intentions for him that night. the woman in a strappy purple summer dress, sipping champagne he had ordered for her, discussing philosophy and existentialism in her best impression of pretension.

"i'm not a whore."

"it's not payment. i just want you to have it. no strings attached."

the girl grabs her cheap imitation knock-off of a gucci bag. she picks up her pink razr cell phone with the hello kitty charm attached. slipping on her mismatched juvenile green flip flops, she puts the butterfly clip that had fallen out back in her tousled hair.

"i don't want it. i'm not interested in a no strings attached attachment." she turns and heads for the door.

"then all you are is a sad little girl who still believes in love and fairy tales."

she stops. twirls her hello kitty charm in her fingers.

"you're wrong," she says in monotone, a hint of uncertainty in her tone.

"how am i wrong? that you're a woman? honey, you're nothing close," he chides, standing up, zipping his jeans. "for an underage fuck you're not too bad though."

"you're still wrong," she says, trembling and reaching for the handle.

"then what is it?" he says, taking a long drag and bending down for another line from the tray. "maybe i am wrong, maybe you weren't that great. you teenagers never know what you're doing."

exiting the room, the swell in her throat drowning out her thoughts once more, she stares straight ahead down the long corridor of identical doors to identical rooms.

"i don't believe in anything anymore."