“Well.” She purses her lips. “I have to go to Italia next week. Woo some clients, hold some hands.” She takes a sip of her drink and chews on the straw. “There’s something refreshing about European men—specifically the Italians. Over here it’s all games, men try to pretend they aren’t trying to get you into bed, and then they drop you as soon as you let them in. Italian men are upfront.” She mimics an Italian accent and lowers her pitch, “‘Bella, let’s get some chicken, and go back to my place for a fucking, yes?’”
I laugh.
“For real, it’s wonderfully freeing.” She stretches her torso then slumps back.
“How long are you going for?”
“Three days.”
“Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”
“More like, ‘Get it up, get it in, get it out, don’t mess my hairdo.’” She smirks. “How’s the library?”
“It’s great!” My happy voice is borderline smug.
“Ah, Elle, you’re the only person I know who actually loves her job.”
“I know. I’m lucky.”
“I wouldn’t go that far—you do still have that heinous condition.”
“Hey!”
“You know what I mean. But you deserve a job that makes you happy. Everyone does really.”
“Well, maybe if everyone stopped settling for jobs they hate, or only don’t like, then they’d get the job they love.”
“Oh, you!” Marie exclaims as the waitress sets our food on the table and places heated plates in front of us. “You spend too much time with books, honestly.” She turns to the waitress and jerks her thumb at me. “This one has been reading too much fiction and not spending enough time in the real world.” The waitress, caught between wanting to agree with Marie, and not wanting to offend me, smiles at us both and scampers off. Marie chuckles and doles out the wings. “So, recommend a book to me, I know you’re itching to.”
Of course I am. I think of the new Coupland, but he’s been defiled by a jerk with a pencil, and I never did read that novel. “Company by Max Barry. I think you’d appreciate the office politics and the characters. He has a great voice that sucks you in right away!”
Marie puts her hand up to stop me from further gushing. I could go on and on about a book I love.
“Okay.” She makes a note on her iPhone. “Any others?”
“I would have recommended the new Coupland, but I never actually got to read it, on account of an asshole.” I didn’t intend to talk about it, but the words leave my mouth of their own accord.
Marie’s expression shows the debate on whether or not she wants to know. Curiosity wins out.
“What?”
I tell her about the underlined book, conveniently leaving out the part where I looked up the patron’s information at work the next day, not wanting to seem like a crazed librarian. I finish and wait for the requisite commiseration and outrage on my behalf. I wait for it... wait for it...
“I don’t get it.” Marie motions to the waitress. “What’s the big deal? It was just pencil—no harm done right?” It’s like we’re not even the same species!
“Um, yes harm done! I couldn’t read the book.”
“Yes, you could.”
“Fine, I could have, but I was too annoyed by the vandalism. And it was pencil this time, but who knows? It’s a slippery slope. If he’s underlined in pencil this time, it could be pen the next, and before you know it—”
“He’s placing the open book face down! Nooooooooo!” She throws her hands up dramatically.
I narrow my eyes. Maybe we’ve had the speech about proper treatment of books before. “You know that that can break the spine Marie! I’d rather someone dog-ear the pages than set a book that way!”
“Oh my god! Not its spine!”
“Ha ha.” My outrage morphs into humour. “Bitch.”
“Or maybe.” A maniacal glint enters her eyes. “Maybe he reads in the bathtub. With all that steam! Anything could happen! He could drop the book in the water!”
“Okay, okay I get it!” I laugh.
“Yes! The fiend. I bet he licks his fingers then flips the pages!”
I try to look stern and fail. Fucking Marie; gotta love someone who can get you to laugh at yourself—especially when you don’t want to.
“You ladies need refills?” the waitress asks.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Might as well make mine slutty too this time.” I throw caution to the wind.
“There’s my girl!” Marie clinks her glass against mine.
Chapter Six
Half an hour after Nick leaves for “another pretension-filled art extravaganza,” I’m standing in the middle of the living room wearing half a corset and three quarters of a skirt, while Kennedy pins and marks the fabric for alterations.
“Way to keep it classy, Ken. All I’m missing is a riding crop.”
“Well, you are a naughty librarian.”
“Hey! I try to avoid being a stereotype as much as I can.”
“This one is a good stereotype. Sexy librarian; it’s every man’s wet dream. Embrace it. If I only had your figure. What I wouldn’t give for that ass,” she sighs.
“Are you kidding? As soon as they invent fake boobs that feel like real ones, I’m getting some chest!”
“Trust me, B’s are perfect.” She arches her back in a way that does not make me feel better about my B’s. “Double D’s are awful. My back always hurts, there aren’t as many pretty bras, button up shirts always gape...”
“Yeah, yeah, and all that’s rendered moot by the way you look when you wear clothes you’ve made for yourself. Or are naked.”
“We all want what we don’t have. Lift your arm.”
“Kay.” I stand as still as I can to hasten the process and avoid getting stuck with a straight pin. “So what’s up with Nick?”
Kennedy freezes then continues pinning. “What do you mean? Has he said anything?”
“He was ranting about work, and turning into a pretentious asshole, but I feel like that’s the symptom, not the cause. He just sounded unlike himself.”
“You know how bad these richies act. Sometimes, with my clothes as well, it feels like they all just go along with things, and cut others up, but they don’t actually know what they’re talking about. They don’t have minds of their own, they just conform, and they’re so... what word am I looking for?”
“Reactionary?” I prod.
She snaps her fingers. “Yes! They all wait around for someone else to say something, then riff on it. They can’t just look—they have to either worship it or tear it apart. There’s no neutral zone.”
“Glad I stuck to books. At least I don’t have to bare my artistic soul to people for them to rip apart.”
“I wish I could just make the clothes and not have to deal with anything else.” She goes back to pinning. “I have to go to a marketing seminar in an hour. I so don’t want to go. Lean back. Clay is supposed to stop by. If I leave our cash with you, can you get our buds for us?”
“Sure.”
***
The first time Clay came over, Nick and I were like kids on Christmas Eve waiting for Santa. Clay had joked about having tea and crumpets like a proper lady, strange as he’s not British or a woman, and Nick and I set to work. Tea was easy enough but we didn’t have any crumpets. We did have a box of assorted cookies in the cupboard though, which we arranged on a plate exactly like the picture on the cookie box. We set the box behind the plate to better showcase our efforts. We wanted our efforts to be noticed but we weren’t gauche enough to say anything.
Clay was, and still is, our dealer. We met him through his younger sister at a party one night. Kennedy and I caught some asshole trying to roofie her, and we scared him off, brought her back to our place and took care of her. He never actually drugged her, but she was still pretty high from other things she’d taken and hadn’t wanted to go back to her parents’ house.
Clay picked her up at our apartment the m
orning after, and she told him what had happened and how we’d taken care of her. We earned his gratitude for protecting his little sis, he earned our business when we learned he was a dealer. He said he’d deliver for us when we moved to the ’burbs.
The classic rhythm, “Shave and a Hair Cut,” is tapped on the front door half an hour after Kennedy’s left. I think that’s the universal safe signal for potheads, which is stupid as that’s the most common knock. There’s no reasoning with weed paranoia peculiarities. Nevertheless, I look through the peephole to confirm that it is in fact Clay before opening the door.
“Hey, Elle.”
“Hey. How are you?”
He takes off his pastel blue converse sneakers. “You know, ducking and diving.”
“Indeed.” No idea what he means. “Tea? Wine?”
“No thanks. Maybe some water?”
“Sure.” He follows me to the kitchen, and takes a deep pull of water, then sets the glass on the counter and rubs his hands together, either to rid himself of condensation or in anticipation.
“Now.” He reaches into his pockets and pulls out two bags. “I think you’ll be happy with the ladies I brought to the party. This right here is New York Diesel. Very stoney, pretty heavy high with a smooth grapey flavour. Contestant number one.” He flicks the bag then sets it on the counter. “And this one here is Durban Poison. She’s a more cerebral intoxication, very clear but it’s a delayed high. One may be tempted to smoke excessively, thinking that it’s weak, only to be laid out on one’s ass an hour later because the high sneaks up.”
He passes the bags to me to check out. I look at them both, smell them, take a nugget out of each, squeeze them to check tightness and resin. He really takes this seriously. It’s not for me, but I want Kennedy and Nick to have the best, so I play along so he doesn’t get offended. “Hmm.” I vacillate and lead us to the living room. Clay’s cute in a generic warm-eyed puppy dog way. He’s not a bad guy, but I’d never want to date a dealer. Granted Clay only sells weed, it’s not like he runs illegal firearms and dabbles in heroin, but it’s all relative.
Not to mention the temptation of having pounds and pounds of weed around me all the time, begging me to smoke myself into oblivion.
“It’s so weird you don’t smoke anymore. What do you think of that weed?” He points to the second bag.
I could have chosen the weed right away, but I really just don’t want to be alone right now.
“This second kind is called what again?”
“Durban Poison.”
“We have a winner. Give me a quarter ounce of it then.” I hand over the folded bills from my back pocket. He hands me a pre-measured bag-o-fun. “I’m about to order some food. Want to hang out for a bit?”
“Can’t, duty calls.”
Damn. Really? Ditched by my former dealer as well. “Alrighty.” We walk to the door, and he puts his sneakers back on.
“Remember, that weed sneaks up on you, so smoke a bit less than you think you’ll need,” he warns.
“It’s not for me.”
He smacks his head. “I keep forgetting. You’re breaking my heart, Elle. You’re my best customer!”
Wow.
His phone rings. “Later, Elle!” He opens the door, answers his phone, and is gone. I lock the door behind him and head to my room to listen to some music, Deva Premal. She’s kind of a niche artist, her partner plays and she sings Sanskrit incantations or mantras; I can’t remember, but it’s truly beautiful. I’m not really into new-age stuff as a rule, but her music is like lying on a raft, floating gently on an ocean of small warm waves. I feel warm, and lulled, and safe when I listen to her music. The wine helps too—everything feels blurred around the edges in a calming, fuzzy way.
I wonder what Jason is doing right now. It’s a lazy thought that lacks twenty percent of the emotional intensity it had last week. It’s strange being left by a man who treated me like I was something precious and infinitely desirable. He used to talk about what our children would look like. His friends had crushes on me which I think only increased my value in his competitive male eyes. He made me feel beautiful, wanted, and loved.
And so, so broken.
Did he move so he’d be farther away from me? Did I do something wrong? I know he’s a terrible facsimile of a human being for doing what he did, but I can’t help but wonder if I did something to drive him to it.
Because he really wasn’t a bad guy until the end. That’s what makes it hard to fully hate him; he was perfect until he moved to another city without telling me. My life has a depressingly country music vibe to it lately.
Jason used to do some incredibly sweet things. The morning after the first time we had sex, he dropped me off at home early because I had to work at noon. He said he’d pick me up after work. After showering, and getting dressed, and basically floating around the apartment for a couple of hours, I went to the library. Mary-Margaret and Jan pounced on me as soon as I walked in.
“Did you and your boyfriend have a fight?” Jan had asked. I replied with a confused expression and a, “No.”
“Well, he came in earlier and left this for you.” She handed me a perfect long-stemmed pink rose. As my cheeks flushed the same hue as the rose, I felt myself soften inside, and fell in love with Jason a little more.
“No, we didn’t fight,” I said quietly.
“Did he do something?” Mary-Margaret the cynic asked.
“No.” I’d smiled and smelled the delicate scent of the flower. “Everything is fine.” The girls smiled then, cautiously happy for me though I wasn’t sure how it could be anything but positive. How could a flower be a bad thing? I guess when you’re older and have been married for a couple of decades, flowers turn into an apology instead of an expression of love.
It was an amazing gesture, he must have dropped me off, gone and bought the rose, and brought it there. It somehow made it special and cuter than if he’d just brought me a rose after work. It was premeditated and adorable. I was a goner. He didn’t do many things like that, but the few he did were special.
Of course, it wasn’t all post coital roses. I did catch him out in a few lies. Most were minor. He’d say a girl on his Facebook was just a friend, but then later admit that they had dated and were still in contact. They weren’t cheating or anything, but it bothered me that he had lied to me about it. Little things like that shouldn’t matter, but they do. Who knows how much of what Jason said to me was bullshit anyway.
This one night, Marie and I were at his place for a party. He had the whole room captivated by his tale of a time in high school when he was high on mushrooms and had a trippy conversation with his mom. Even I was captivated by the drama unfolding in the story. So much so that it was Marie who nudged me to point out the bullshit flying around.
Two months or so before, we were all going to do mushrooms, but Jason claimed he had never done them before. It was a big deal at the time considering his age, so we’d pretty much catered to him that night. So if he had told the truth then, he was lying at the party. And if he was telling the truth at the party, he’d lied to me when we’d done mushrooms his “first” time. Either way he was a liar and for what? To play the ingénue with my friends and I back then, or to impress a room full of acquaintances at his party. Neither made sense to me—why lie about something so insignificant? What was the payoff? I was understandably pissed, so was Marie. We left the party about ten minutes later.
Except someone had stolen my boots. It just topped off the night. I wasn’t going home barefooted, but a quick getaway was needed, so I stole someone else’s boots. I took a pair that were comparable to mine, not the fanciest pair there, and I didn’t feel bad about it at all. At that moment I was disgusted to be dating a petty liar and disgusted with everyone associated with him. I wonder who took my boots though, and if they did it out of mistaken drunkenness or on purpose. I wonder if it was their boots I ended up taking. I never wore them again.
Screw Jason. I sit up and get to
work on my project. The other day I saw this show where they decoupaged sheet music to an old chest of drawers, and it looked awesome. In my case it’s old books that were going to be recycled, rather than sheet music. I’m not up to the chest of drawers; I want to try something smaller first, so I’ve grabbed a blank journal with a lame cover and an old binder that I keep photos in. They make for an easier revamp, and it won’t be as big a deal if I give up—or suck too badly to continue. I’ve seen some work where fabric was used, but I think I’d only do that if I made something for Kennedy.
I won’t actually varnish the sheets to the journal and binder tonight; I’ll just cut pieces of the book pages out and work out placement. It’s relaxing, and I enjoy this working of the hands. Dominic had very nice hands. And that smile! He is all kinds of sexy. I’m glad he read the books I recommended. I gently poke my lip with my fingertip. His body felt solid as hell when we collided.
My cell phone rings, and of course it’s at the moment where I need both hands. Screw it, it can wait—that’s what voicemail is for. At first, I feel a bit bad about cutting pages from the books, but they would have been recycled. This way some of their content will remain. Plus it will look really cool... If these pieces would sit together and stop sticking to my hands because of static electricity... Shaking my hands doesn’t work.
Annoyed, I toss the scissors and glue which creates a wind that blows the pages about, and knocks the pieces from my hands. See, this is why I don’t do crafts; I lack the patience, and probably the manual dexterity to do them. Sure, I get ideas, but then they go tits up because I suck at everything!
Whoa. Break time for mental health. Standing and stretching helps a lot, my neck was in knots from sitting still for so long, and then the tension from freaking out.
The number isn’t familiar when I check my phone, but there’s a new message. I hit play and wait. Maybe it’s someone telling me that a distant relative I never knew has passed away and left me a bunch of money or an old castle somewhere! Maybe I’ve won a trip to a quiet beach! Or maybe—no, it’s just a pocket dial. Pocket dials can be interesting, albeit somewhat voyeuristic. I always feel compelled to listen to the whole thing. Curiosity killed the cat.
Just Breathe Page 4
