FAÇADE, 13
She cocks her head and follows my gesture. “Who? I really can’t hear you. Wanna go someplace with less noise?”
In day-to-day life, this is unacceptable behavior, but add a club and some alcohol and it becomes an act of courtesy. My lips shape “no”, but the music drowns out any utterance of the word.
"What?” she yells over the music, her voice intoxicated by unnatural levels of estrogen.
The barkeep returns with the drink, and I say to the brunette woman, “Sure. After this drink.”
We crash onto a floating bed at the center of her studio apartment. It’s at the top of a high-rise at the end of Lakeside, before the city limits of Long Brooke. Sweeps of flowery fragrance latticed by vanilla tosses along the walls. Her pillows smell unusually clean, I think as she tears my shirt open.
She begins to fiddle around with my belt, when a sudden urge to break away overwhelms me. In a flash, I see the redheaded jogger morph into the dilapidated old woman. I slip to the edge of her bed and place my head into my palms. I swear I’m not weeping.
“What’s wrong?” the brunette woman from the bar asks, although there is either a lack of sincerity or too much alcohol in her tone.
“I’m fine,” I slobber out.
“Can we fix this?” she asks – not quite the question I thought she had in mind. Her voice is seductive despite its balloon-squeal pitch, and in a way, indescribable. Sometimes you have to hold a diamond to understand it.
I rush up to my feet and collect my clothes, even though I confess part of me wants to stay. As I take off, I glance down at my cell phone and see Ray has texted me: “Backyard. Now!”
In day-to-day life, this is unacceptable behavior, but add a club and some alcohol and it becomes an act of courtesy. My lips shape “no”, but the music drowns out any utterance of the word.
"What?” she yells over the music, her voice intoxicated by unnatural levels of estrogen.
The barkeep returns with the drink, and I say to the brunette woman, “Sure. After this drink.”
We crash onto a floating bed at the center of her studio apartment. It’s at the top of a high-rise at the end of Lakeside, before the city limits of Long Brooke. Sweeps of flowery fragrance latticed by vanilla tosses along the walls. Her pillows smell unusually clean, I think as she tears my shirt open.
She begins to fiddle around with my belt, when a sudden urge to break away overwhelms me. In a flash, I see the redheaded jogger morph into the dilapidated old woman. I slip to the edge of her bed and place my head into my palms. I swear I’m not weeping.
“What’s wrong?” the brunette woman from the bar asks, although there is either a lack of sincerity or too much alcohol in her tone.
“I’m fine,” I slobber out.
“Can we fix this?” she asks – not quite the question I thought she had in mind. Her voice is seductive despite its balloon-squeal pitch, and in a way, indescribable. Sometimes you have to hold a diamond to understand it.
I rush up to my feet and collect my clothes, even though I confess part of me wants to stay. As I take off, I glance down at my cell phone and see Ray has texted me: “Backyard. Now!”
