Clara would’ve heard that Bea and I broke up, she would know I was free to do as I pleased with whomever wanted it. Though my head was still full of Bea, there was no reason why I couldn’t have this one thing, for someone I’d had a crush on to look at me and see that I wanted them, and, after years of me wanting, to finally want me back. I wanted Clara’s desire, and I didn’t care if she was only feeling it now because she was adrift and I was familiar. Her interest meant that people could go away from you, but then come back.
“Do we need to get you out of here? For the safety of yourself and others?” I kept my tone light, giving her room to push back or to transition the vibe into something more familiarly platonic. She licked her lips, and the spit on them shone in the moonlight.
“Let’s go to Hermosillo?” she asked. “Get a quiet glass of wine?”
It was within walking distance. “Sure,” I said.
We smashed our plastic cups against each other again and took the rest of the nice scotch as a shot, then ghosted the party. The residential streets were barely lit; all downhill, our footfalls were loud. On the seven-minute walk to the bar, Clara recited the plots of her favorite scary movies in a successful attempt to terrify me. We held hands and stumbled together, giggling, equally drunk, the edges of all the leaves blurring into one dark green blob, the motion sensor lights in front of nicer houses blinking on as we stumbled by. David was working the door at Herm, we hugged him as we went in. We ordered beers from a bartender named Jason, pints of light beer from Highland Park Brewery, and we could barely hold them steady, sloshed beer all over our fingers and the floor as we pushed through a small clump of people to a recently vacated table near the door, still covered with other people’s empty glasses. Clara sat a friendly distance away through half a pint, then finally, finally she put a hand on my thigh, as low as you could get without just touching my knee.
“Am I going to fuck up our friendship?” she asked.
“What friendship? I’ve just been trying to get in your pants.” I scooted closer to her, which made her hand go far enough up my thigh that the tips of her fingers were underneath the hem of my jean shorts, and the gentle rub of her fingertips against my skin made my cunt pulse, just once. “No,” I said, seriously. “We’re both single, and you’re beautiful. In the morning we’ll go back to normal.”
“Okay,” she said and she kissed me, which I guess I’d been waiting for.
We Lyfted back to her apartment, and I unbuttoned her shirt, one by one. The whole time we’d been chatting on the porch, flirting over pints of beer, she hadn’t been wearing a bra. My lizard brain interpreted her bralessness as a deliberate gift and made me shudder, pulse. I wanted a chance to touch every part of her body, which was warm and semi-naked and most importantly here with me, not disappeared somewhere, like Ezra, leaving me with only an impression of him trapped inside my useless idiotic lump of an iPhone.
Clara sat on her couch and I straddled her, put my glasses on the hexagonal side table. She grabbed at the fabric of my tank top and pushed it aside, so she could get her tongue on one of my nipples. She said, “Fuck, I love this shirt.”
As we kissed I worked one hand into her black jeans, trying to snake low enough into the unforgiving denim to reach her clit, and all my failed attempts I think felt to her like a tease; I could smell her, she was getting wet.
“Do you want to go to the bedroom?” she said.
“Sure,” I said. I got off her. Clara left her shirt in a crumple on the couch; I followed the twin mountain crests of her shoulder blades into her bedroom. The room was dim, a little bit of light from outside coming in through her high long windows, and she turned on one of those pink Himalayan sea salt lamps, a muted glow. She had the typical LA-apartment architecture: the closet stretched along one entire wall, closed off from the bedroom with sliding doors that were also floor to ceiling mirrors. It made the room stretch long. Clara’s bedsheets were decorated with a print I recognized from IKEA, but otherwise everything in her room looked thrifted. All the plants in her apartment were leafy, not succulents, which meant she could take care of them.
I kneeled on the bed and helped Clara unbutton her jeans. Her underwear was pale and damp, I touched her and tried not to catch sight of my own reflection in my peripherals. Nothing is as unsexy to me as seeing your own body contorted awkwardly during sex, the way I had to scrunch my belly unflatteringly to get my mouth around one of her pink nipples while my fingers still worked gently at her clit, over her underwear, smelling and feeling how she soaked them. I remembered from our friendly conversations about sex, over margaritas somewhere, that Clara did like to be teased a little.
We moved apart and together again (then apart and together again) as Clara took off my top, my pants.
“Get over here,” I said, even though she was close enough to touch.
Her legs were long underneath me as I pulled her underwear off finally, and I could smell her better then. She watched me as I put my fingers back on her clit, she closed her eyes as I circled there a few times. She didn’t let me stay there long.
She opened her eyes, flipped me so she was hovering over me, her eyes glowed, she nudged two fingers at my cunt to see if I was wet, and of course I was, I was ready.
“Is this alright?” she said, before going anywhere else. I nodded.
She fucked me with one finger, then two, curling up towards my g-spot, asking a few times if it was there (no), if it was there (no), until she gave up on finding it, and moved her fingers to my clit where she flicked a little too hard. She was so used to fucking someone else, she couldn’t fuck the body that was under her; she didn’t try to pleasure me, she tried to pleasure the girl that had left her.
“I’m good,” I said, grabbing her hand to stop it from moving anymore and before she could get too in her head, I guided her onto her back and went down on her. It took her a while, as I tried to interpret her small noises as guides to how I should adjust, but eventually she came with a gush and a shudder. We nuzzled, got under the covers, smelling each other in the air.
“We’re okay, right?” she said.
“We’re great,” I said, touching her cheek and giving her a kiss, so I could remember what her lips felt like. We probably wouldn’t ever kiss again.
“Okay, I’m going to turn over.”
She drifted away, to sleep, and I got up for a minute, went to the kitchen and got us a glass of water for the morning, got my phone.
I put the water on the side table next to Clara, where she’d be able to blindly grope for it in the morning, she was drunker than I was. I lay on my back and held my phone up. I tapped Georgie’s name.
Georgie
Friday 11:59 PM
Where are you?
Lydia
Have you eaten?
Where are you?
BEA SHOWED UP
Are you okay with that or did you flee?
i left before Bea showed
went home with Clara
don’t tell
Lydia was giving, caring, loyal, but a gossip. If she was still at the party, and she probably was, then Bea would find out I went home with Clara before she went to bed. If Bea had gone home already, she’d find out from someone at brunch the next morning; her hair would be frizzy, up in a big bun, her eyes would be squinted even behind her big Crap sunglasses. She’d pretend in front of other people not to care, but I’d wake up with a nasty text. I would be happy, waiting for her response.
I opened Instagram and waited for a second while it loaded; even though I hadn’t posted last night, I saw I had a hearty crop of notifications since the last time I opened the app, almost three hundred red hearts according to the small red bubble that popped up at the bottom of my screen. Find out who’s liked you, figure out why. It wasn’t a mystery that was hard to solve; I didn’t even have to tap my notif
ications button, the culprit was at the top of the screen: a new post from Ezra.
It was a picture I recognized and remembered, Ezra and Miggy and me, in a hot tub at a Palm Springs Airbnb rental, taken on a trip three years ago, the sun setting pink, and behind us the big mountains, the bigger sky. Ezra’s caption said, “We’re missing our boy tonight.” With me in that picture, did that “we” include me?
EzraIsTexting
jus tell me if you’re alive out there bc i have a bad feeling
if u don’t answer imma come over to your place
ezra please i’m getting so stressed
Today 2:22 AM
for real you post that pic but you won’t text me back?
Did the “we” stretch to include the woman who had taken the picture, Nozlee in her red bikini?
Fuck him. I prepared my own post, of the crushed Bud Light can from my walk this morning, the special Rams logo fully visible despite the aluminum’s crumple. I picked the filter called Juno because it made the blue on the can lighter but kept the metallic shine of light bouncing off metal. I typed the caption: “A violent crime! If anyone has any clues about how this buddy’s life was taken from us, please slide into my DMs.” I hit post and watched the screen for a few seconds while it loaded, posted.
Then, disgusted suddenly with my entire cell phone and everything it contained, I turned off the screen, stuffed the phone under my pillow where it would be safe, and tried to fall asleep.
Saturday, 7:37 a.m.
I knew I was hungover before I was really awake, my body heavy and disjointed, my location unfamiliar, the headache building in the bones between my eyes and my nose, the acid taste of last night’s last drink lingering in the back of my throat. If I could prevent myself from fully waking up, I could slip back to sleep and ride out at least half of my hangover in sweaty unconsciousness.
With a burst of sound loud enough make my headache pulse, Clara’s air conditioner window unit chugged on. For five terrible seconds, the noise was intense enough to kill me. I felt it forcing too much blood into my brain, felt my brain on the verge of explosion, felt the nausea swim through my throat and cheeks, I was absolutely going to die. As my last act before definitely dying, I moved my limbs haphazardly, like trying to climb out of a volcano while it was erupting; Clara’s sheets were soft but in an unfamiliar way. Then, I realized that if I could hold on a little bit longer, I could get used to the noise of the air conditioner and it would fade into a tolerable buzz. I willed my body to still and for the air of my breath to go in and out of my nose, to avoid tasting my hangover breath.
Then, the air conditioner turned off. The air was still and everything was quiet and I could feel my body settle again, and breathing wasn’t such a difficult task, and neither was closing my eyes, and neither was slipping gently away to wait out my hangover in pleasant unconsciousness. The air conditioner jolted on again.
It was somehow louder, and metallically sharp, as if with the noise it was coming apart and little pieces of metal were stabbing me in the temples, and eye sockets, and either side of my nose, and in the skin underneath my eyebrows that is so close to the bone. Like someone suffering from severe brain damage, Clara slept through the assault without waking. The air conditioner turned off. I turned over to watch her lay peacefully in the temporary quiet, her hair matted onto the side of her face, her mouth slightly parted in sleep. I liked this soft and unkempt version of her face, the fact that after years of looking at her I got this private view. It was better than actually sleeping with her to know that I had slept with her; I will take any and all intimacy freely given. I could fall asleep again maybe, ride out my hangover, use her mouthwash, wake her up, eat her out for a couple of hours, go get brunch. Think of things to say to her to make her like me more.
The fucking air conditioner jolted on again and she didn’t even twitch. Nothing in her face changed, but it lost its rare and inviting quality all the same. We were just two stupid drunk people, and if I stayed she wouldn’t like me any more than she ever had. That was enough of Clara’s house.
I spotted my underwear in the opposite corner, remembered flinging it there with abandon the previous evening; not all the details were there, and many which remained were ringed with fuzz, but I recalled my tossing of my own underpants. I stood up, my head swam, I retrieved and put on my clothes with practiced quiet. But when I opened the door, I heard Clara moan, finally stir. The on and off of the air conditioner couldn’t rouse her, but someone leaving did. I got out of there before she could fully regain herself.
Clara lived in Echo Park like I did, but south of 101, in the pre-gentrified zone, where high-rises painted disgusting Kermit greens had just begun sprouting in between liquor stores and auto body shops. The apartments were nice and cheaper in Clara’s zone, but crossing the 101 presented some challenges. To get to my nice home, I had a few options: pay for a quick Lyft and be forced to make small talk with an annoying man in the early and terrible morning, take a very long walk around the 101, or use the pedestrian overpass above the 101, which was the shortest way but very loud and hot and sometimes populated by the homeless men who considered it their territory. None of the three sounded doable while my body was in an in-between place where nausea had taken it over but actual vomit was not yet forthcoming; I had only one option, to induce the purge. Luckily, Clara had a half bathroom off her impossibly bright living room and I didn’t have to venture back into her bedroom to use the en suite; I had the blessed opportunity to vomit in peace.
The half bath was speckled with indigo blue like the rest of her apartment, blue in the towels, blue in curtains. I locked the door so if Clara rose and came to find me, she wouldn’t interrupt. I knelt before the toilet, I checked the pointer and middle fingernails on my right hand for embedded dirt and finding them clean, I delicately inserted them into my mouth and buried them snake-like into the hot wet of my pulsating throat. The gagging came easily, the retching came quickly, and I threw up only the fizzy aftermath of beer and liquor, barely a hint of enchiladas, eaten so long ago they were a non-factor. I felt better than I had all morning in the throes of my purge, the nausea faded out, my body cleaning itself, de-poisoning itself, taking care of me, making me ready for a new day. When it was done, I stood shakily and gripped the sink, turned on the faucet. I sloshed some water around in my mouth, rinsed once, rinsed twice, then swallowed a few gulps. The nausea was temporarily abated; it would be back for sure, but I had enough time to get home before it got bad again.
Out of the bathroom, my phone and keys laid carefully on the coffee table as a helpful gesture from my past drunk self to my current hungover self, my boots in a little pile near the door, out the door, down Clara’s small staircase, past her gate, and out onto Cortez Street. I walked past the gated liquor store, turned onto Belmont, and hurried onto the overpass, to get this part of my walk over fast. The narrow overpass was blissfully empty save for discarded shoes and crushed beer cans and a thick layer of graffiti tattooing the concrete edges. The cars whizzed down the 101 below me, taking advantage of a rare moment of low traffic congestion. Their noise was beastly, I was hot all over, and in the final patch of garbage near the end of the overpass, I spotted a crunched up Budweiser Rams can. Like a bad omen, I ran from it.
I scurried down the pedestrian staircase and landed at the base of Echo Park Lake, already swarming with families and runners and people lounging in the shade with their dogs and Mexican men selling ice cream, hot dogs, pupusas, and churros. Nearby me, a baby started crying, but I couldn’t spot where the baby was exactly, just heard its nightmarish squeals, as if the sound of impotent sobbing was coming from the very air. As I hurried up the path around the lake, a large dog waddled over to me and slobbered all over my knees, while its owner tugged and apologized; but with her spidery arms, she was no match for the dog’s heft. I darted away from the dog’s grasping tongue.
Normally, I love
the clamor of the park, its oasis-like quality, the way the downtown skyscrapers glimmer mountainous above the palm trees. But hungover, it was a hall of mirrors. I had to get out of there as fast as I could.
Several long and horrible minutes later, I made it out to the clamor of Sunset Blvd, then up Echo Park Avenue and into the oasis of my little bungalow. I slammed the windowed door behind me and locked it fast, as if chased by the noise and the sunlight. I dropped my blackout curtains and fired up my own quiet air conditioner; I lit my lavender candle; I peeled off all my clothing except my underwear and plopped down in my luxuriously cold and empty bed, the sheets a familiar softness. Sleep didn’t come immediately, though, what with the remains of that small bit of cocaine swimming around somewhere behind my eyes, and the nausea spins gently returning. I thumbed at my phone like a life preserver as I tried to distract myself long enough to feel drowsy, instinctively clicking on Instagram. Maybe the gentle flow of art-directed images would soothe me.
First thing I saw was a crop of heart notifications, indicating that fifty-four people had liked an image, and remembered posting the crumpled Bud Rams can. I remembered suddenly that after a full day of absence and panic, Ezra had emerged digitally: he’d posted on Instagram, he’d texted Chelsea and Tommy, but still hadn’t texted me back. There was nothing wrong with him physically, he wasn’t hurt or blocking out the world, he was just refusing me. It was a black panic, not knowing why. I wanted to drain the anxiety out of me, somehow, as easily as I’d emptied my own stomach. But I didn’t know how to by myself, without Ezra here to explain my crimes and absolve me. Maybe there was gossip about it and somebody else could tell me. Maybe I would feel better if I screamed about it to all my friends.
U UP? Page 13
