In Her Eyes

by Renée J. Lukas

  “Wonder with someone else.” I got up from the couch as quickly as my legs would allow.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I have a strict policy not to get involved with roommates,” I said, retreating to my room. I’d had more than my share of roommate drama. I thought it would be easier on her feelings to leave out the lack of attraction part.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Adrienne

  By this time, our band was playing enough steady gigs to help me pay the rent. Sometimes we performed at noisy clubs where everyone is pressed so tightly to each other, arms and legs hooking together. Sometimes it’s like watching strangers having sex under strobe lights. Some people like to do it in public. I once dated this woman who couldn’t come unless there was a chance we’d get caught. At first, it freaked me out. But I talked a good game, so I couldn’t disappoint her. Robin was the only one who seemed to get that I was much more scared about things than I seemed. Anyway, it was kind of exciting for a while. And I wasn’t ashamed to be a sexual being. The curves of a tight, round ass in my palms…The choking heat and intoxicating scent of sex, our skin awash with salt, sweat and the hint of smoke from the nightclub we’d left. I loved it all, for a while.

  But I got tired of sneaking around public restrooms and other skanky places where it really doesn’t feel good to be naked. It only seems good in a fantasy until you get there and feel a greasy bathroom stall door sliding against your back, and you wonder what else has touched that door. I begged her to do it once at my apartment in an actual bed, but she said no. It wasn’t until I told her about my roommates who could come home at any time that she lit up like a Christmas tree and followed me home. When we got there, I told her she was a fucking head case and slammed the door in her face. I hadn’t yet learned how to use my guitar more effectively to get out stress.

  On this night we were performing at Throb, a super hip club in the West end. It was another one of those loud, smoky nights with barely enough air between bodies. My band and I had just finished doing our set and we made our way to the bar. I could feel the sweat dripping down the back of my neck. I reached up and around to wipe it, arching my neck back when a pair of dark eyes found mine in a sliver of space between dancing bodies. It wasn’t unusual to see girls admiring me after we performed. I’d momentarily go from a nobody to a star. I fell easily into the role. Only tonight I was too hot and tired to care. I settled onto a stool and practically kissed my icy cold bottle of Sam Adams.

  “I like the bass line of the last one,” Jerry said, pretending he wasn’t scoping out potential groupies.

  “You liked the change up?” I arched an eyebrow. I improvised a little tonight, but I didn’t think the guys would notice.

  “Aw, shut up, Drew,” he barked, knowing I’d caught him.

  “It was good,” I teased, sipping the cold fizz with a grin.

  Even though I was exhausted, I wasn’t too tired to notice the dark eyes coming closer, a hot body slinking over to me. Her eyes seemed mysterious, but open at the same time, openly curious. That was it. She seemed curious and interested…in a cool blue dress, skintight and dipping down just a little too far.

  I’d watched this scene so many times, I almost laughed to myself.

  Then she touched my face—a move too sudden, too intimate from a stranger. But I didn’t pull away. It wasn’t so funny now.

  We went back to her place. She invited me in with the crook of her finger and a teasing smile. I couldn’t wait to shed the skin of her clothes and hold what seemed to be the most succulent breasts in the world in my palms. I’m sure I looked pathetic, half-drunk and hungry like a baby. But I wanted this to happen now.

  I woke up to a dim morning light, the kind where you can tell through the curtains it’s going to be a gray day. Next thing I heard were drops of rain tapping the windows.

  Where the hell was I? I didn’t remember what part of town her apartment was in. I glanced around a messy bedroom with clothes all over the floor. Then I saw her cocoa skin, bare shoulders…She was a Latina goddess. My eyes were drawn down to the line of her hip, as the sheet twisted around her upper thighs. We must have torn up the bedroom, I thought, realizing what a mess everything was. The only thing left in place was a single lamp on the nightstand.

  She stirred a little.

  I jumped out of the bed and grabbed my clothes. I could tell when she woke up, and I was like the proverbial deer in headlights, not able to make a graceful exit.

  “Hey.” She smiled sleepily.

  “Hey.”

  “Leaving so soon?”

  I zipped my jeans and straightened my body. “Yeah, I have to go.” I’d said this too many times; I was starting to have regrets about this scene. I’d heard people talk about the empty feeling they got from one-night stands, but I never knew what they were talking about. Now a sensation of hollowness had crept in. I was becoming one of those people.

  “I don’t usually do things like this,” she said shyly. The siren from last night had vanished.

  “You could’ve fooled me.”

  She lowered her eyes; I’d embarrassed her. Shit, she was serious. I came over to the bed, enjoying the sight of her, letting my finger trace across her collarbone and down her arm.

  “I really don’t.” She was propped on her elbow, staring up at me with big, dark eyes. “I have a confession. I’ve seen you before.”

  “Oh really?” I smiled.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen you around town. I imagined what it would be like…” She drifted off, her gaze dreamy. “You have a reputation.”

  “I hope so.” I stood up again. I used my jokes to keep a distance and to stave off awkward moments.

  “I’m never going to hear from you again, am I?” she asked.

  I’d almost made it to the door. I turned around slowly. “I really like you,” I said. I meant it too. I hoped she could tell.

  “I like you too.” She was wanting something more from me, or so I thought. “Please, don’t insult me.”

  I thought this was the same old argument I’d had with other women before. I sighed in exasperation, readying myself for what I thought was coming.

  “Don’t treat me like some clingy girlfriend you have to shake loose,” she said. “We had a night together. I was part of that too, you know. What makes you think I want to carve our initials into trees or something?”

  I laughed. She was independent. She was cool. And she wasn’t apologetic for wanting casual sex. “Maybe we could see each other again,” I said. I really meant it this time.

  She climbed out of bed, wrapping the sheet around herself, and came over to me. With her mouth so close to mine, she went in for a kiss. I answered back, feeling the silky parting of her lips, which sent shivers all over my body.

  When we pulled apart, I knew I had to ask her.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “I feel like a jerk, but I can’t remember your name.” I hoped she’d appreciate my honesty.

  “Carmen,” she said tersely. “I don’t expect you to marry me, but it would be nice if you remembered my name. Jesus.”

  “I’m sorry, I was tired.”

  I wish our parting had been better and less awkward, but that’s how it went. Real life is never as smooth and dramatic as in your fantasies. So far, my love life had been full of missed opportunities and dumb mistakes. I seemed to have mastered those.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Adrienne

  I turned the key in the door and crept inside my apartment, trying not to draw attention. I had to get myself together for a practice later. My band had a big show that night. Jerry thought this would be our big break, but he said that about almost every gig. Even so, we wanted to be flawless and choose our set list wisely.

  I absently maneuvered in the kitchen, toasting a bagel and pouring some coffee, because there was no way in hell I was going to hang out for breakfast at Carmen’s. I hadn’t taken my first sip when Peggy rushed in. She was in her button
ed-up business suit that made her feel less powerless at her male-dominated company that she bitched about every day. I gave her a grunt of tired acknowledgment. Of course she noticed that I was still dressed in last night’s clothes. In the mornings I usually came out wearing a thin, ripped nightshirt—the one that had a faded “Seminoles” across the front—and my tight white skivvies.

  “What are you doing awake before eleven?” she quipped, gliding toward the coffeepot. She knew the answer but wanted to hear me say it.

  “My gig ran late.” My head was buried in the fridge, as I searched for creamer.

  “I’ll bet it did.” Her voice was always so judgmental and annoying. Then she checked the coffeepot, and the “Add Water” message was blinking. “It’s already empty!” she cried. “I just filled it.”

  I came up for air, holding a bottle of creamer with a questionable expiration date. “Sorry,” I confessed. “I used it.”

  “Ugh!”

  I grabbed the pitcher and poured more in, annoyed that it was such a big issue. “If you hate your job,” I said, “get the fuck outta there.”

  She seemed surprised by my observation, then turned on her defensive default switch. “Oh, that’s so easy for you to say. You don’t know what it’s like out in the real world.”

  “Where the hell do you think I live?”

  “Candyland.” She purposely, accidentally bumped into me on her way to the toast. “You don’t get it.”

  I got in her face and could tell I was making her uncomfortable.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t get it, why you think being pissed at me is gonna make your life better. It won’t.” I made a kissing motion with my lips that sent her over the edge.

  Next thing I knew, she practically climbed over the kitchen bar, lunged for the door, yanked her coat off the hook and left without her coffee or toast. Usually, she’d add something like, “Put some clothes on. Not everyone wants to see that.” But since I was wearing jeans this morning, I only got the familiar slam of the door behind her.

  I thought we’d awakened Ursula. But she rose at seven, like clockwork, and not a minute before. It seemed I was always surrounded by these weird robot chicks who had to be on a schedule and never had a moment of deviation from that schedule. I decided I’d call our first album Deviation when we got a record deal. It seemed appropriate.

  Before I got dressed, I had a bagel and coffee in front of the TV. I saw the local morning news, which I’d never been up early enough to see before. I never watched the weather. I liked to go outside and let the world surprise me.

  I took one sip, and, bored with stories about local perverts in the area, I switched it to CNN. There on TV was Robin Sanders. Her image startled me like being hit by a two-by-four. She had a regal presence, her face filling the screen, more womanly with deeper smile lines around her mouth and a different shorter hairstyle—but I knew immediately who it was before I saw her name.

  I leaned forward, unable to comprehend what was happening. It wasn’t just seeing her, it was what she said. She was much more sure of herself than the girl I used to know. She spoke with such authority, so controlled, her words so careful and measured; she was like a well-rehearsed mannequin.

  “I’ve always been committed to programs that positively impact our children and families,” she said. Or something close to that…

  Her Southern accent was a bit more tempered, but I still detected it.

  I realized I’d already seen her dress rehearsal for this uptight, conservative performance in school. She did well with the stuffy, condescending posturing even back then. But now it had really grown and flourished—this aberration, this caricature of a human being. It was Robin, but at the same time, it wasn’t.

  On screen: “Robin Sanders Reacts to Senator Jay Felder’s Comments.”

  Robin’s words: “He’s abandoned his family values platform. That is evident in his abysmal record on abortion and failure to protect us from the wave of crime sweeping through our state like an epidemic. I won’t let my beloved Georgia become a third-world country.”

  The camera loved her, and it scared me. In a split second, I could see the possibilities for her. She could go far in conservative political circles if she wanted to, just like her father.

  I had to laugh at myself. Over the years I’d thought about her so many times, she went from a memory to my conscience sometimes, making me think more carefully about my lyrics and the way young girls would view themselves after hearing one of my songs. And as much as I hated to admit it, she’d been the muse for many of my songs. Sometimes she was a dove or an angel. Then she was a demon who could be your undoing.

  Whatever she was, whether I’d admit it to myself or not, she’d become my main reason for creating art. She was the right combination of the unattainable, peppered with just enough memories to create that sweet misery that often inspired art and, particularly, music. Some of my favorite musicians did their best albums when plagued by heartbreak. The minute they found a happy, secure, loving relationship, their music went straight to hell. Every song would sound like vanilla ice cream—no bitter, only sweet for the entire album. For that reason I was grateful my life had remained in a state of unbridled tumult.

  Back to the TV…my old flame! And there on CNN no less. In my mind, I could make her whatever I wanted her to be. But this woman speaking on TV, I didn’t know who the hell she was.

  I don’t remember her exact words, but she said something along these lines: “He’s supported laws that encourage unnatural unions and failed to protect our God-given right to worship how we choose. He’s a liberal in conservative clothing.”

  Oh. My. God.

  I sat back on the couch, the energy of a swirling funnel cloud sucking all of the air out of the room. Was I dead? Was this the afterlife? I couldn’t see color for a moment. My vision went all fuzzy like when the TV goes out.

  Obviously, both of us now flirting with thirty, we didn’t know each other at all. Then again, how well did I know her back in college? Too many words went unspoken—the most important words, it seemed. What wasn’t said had led me to a life that was, to some, unorthodox, and her, to a life stuffed inside a closet. The girl who once told me she loved me was now trying to enact laws that would make me a criminal. She always said she thought I belonged in prison. I’d thought she was joking.

  What I hated most weren’t the awful things Robin was saying. It was that I still thought she was beautiful. After all these years, she was arresting in that same way, leaving me momentarily forgetful that I was supposed to hate her guts for what she was saying, like looking into the eyes of the devil and still saying to yourself, “Yeah, I’d do her.” I mean, what the hell was that about? But we all did it—thinking things we’d rather die than admit to the rest of the world.

  The anchorperson wrapped up the interview, saying, “Ms. Sanders is currently leading in the Georgia Senate race, even though she supports legislation that would undo protections for homosexuals against discrimination in the workplace.”

  They cut to footage of Robin answering questions in front of the courthouse on another day. The reporter went on about how Robin was trying to win a seat in some Atlanta district, blah, blah. I was blind with rage and didn’t listen completely. All I saw was her painted-on smile, a silk scarf covering her neck and her hair, which must have been styled by a focus group somewhere. Nothing about her was real anymore. She said, “Embracing unnatural lifestyles confuses and negatively impacts our children…”

  My mind flashed back there, to the dorm room where our clothes were lying on the floor and Robin’s laughter and our whole year together…all of those conflicting feelings. I hadn’t understood how much they’d impacted my life until now.

  “You ate my pussy, you hypocrite!” I shouted, losing control.

  “We must protect our families at all costs.”

  “And you liked it!”

  Robin had always hated it when I said the word “pussy.” Right now, I wanted to s
hout it a million times. Pussy! Pussy! Pussy!

  Dizzy with rage, I bolted from the couch, my hands balled into fists, dropping my coffee mug and hearing it crash onto the floor in a million little ceramic pieces. I wanted to punch the next person I saw, which happened to be Ursula.

  She shuffled out in her flannel pj’s, rubbing her tired eyes.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Go back to bed. It’s only six thirty.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Adrienne

  That night we were going to perform at The Esplanade, an outdoor venue, as part of a lineup of local acts. It would expose us to a much bigger audience than we’d ever had.

  It was cold and windy as I put on my fingerless gloves, my hair whipping around my face. I was wearing it long and wild these days with more highlights. The concert was going to start, no matter how much my world had spun off its axis. The big notes had begun, introducing our most popular song, “She’s a Trap.”

  “Adrienne!” our manager shouted from backstage. She was a frazzled nerve ending, Linda Sumter. Very no-nonsense. She once quit a job because the artist meditated too much and was never where he was supposed to be on time. She always muttered about how she was going to “wash her hands of these creative types.”

  I was swaying back and forth in the underground tunnel, picturing Robin’s face in my mind. How surreal, how much bullshit she had to say on national television…

  “What are you doing!” Linda’s voice was a red-hot cinder of panic.

  “I don’t sing for a while,” I said. I knew I seemed unfocused. “You know how the song goes.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  I shook my head, not looking at her.

  The drums kicked in. The time for my voice was drawing closer.

  Robin on TV. It messed with my head. I kept hearing Jerry say, “Success is the ultimate revenge!”

  I imagined my past and present converging at this one show. Maybe Robin would see it if someone recorded it…I walked through the tunnel into the outdoor stadium, the noise thundering above my head.