“He’s big.”
She sucked on both of the red stirrer things in her drink. Her ice spiraled.
“Big,” I said, without expression. I sipped at my water. It was way too cold—I winced.
Sandra rolled her eyes.
“You know,” she said, slower, waggling her eyebrows. “He’s… big.”
I sighed. “You mean his penis is very large?”
She choked, spitting her drink all over the table. Automatically, I pulled a Kleenex from my sweater and dabbed at the mess.
“That’s one way of putting it, I guess.” She giggled. Shooing me away, she wiped the table clean with her sleeve. “Although the rest of him is pretty big too.”
“I don’t like muscles,” I insisted, not for the first time. I gave her the Kleenex and she shredded it trying to wipe her sleeve off, frowning.
“Everyone likes muscles,” she said. “You don’t like freaks, which he isn’t. He’s a big, strong, sexy, funny, interesting-”
“Charismatic, delightful, rich, smart, well-dressed,” I added, staring at the ceiling and mentally counting to ten, “huge-penised, BMW-driving, fascinating-”
“I said that one,” Sandra interrupted.
“-solid gold diamond of a man, and he comes with a slice of pie,” I finished. “Except just like the last one, he’ll actually be decent-looking but obnoxious, and he’ll ejaculate during dinner when I tell him I’m interested in sex.”
“That had to be a one-time thing,” Sandra said, making a face. She ordered another Manhattan. It came out of a hose, fully mixed, like soda. Gross. The guy added ice and a cherry, setting the clear plastic cup on a tiny square of napkin. She tipped him her number.
“That’s exactly what he said,” I sighed. “But then in the cab on the way to my place-”
“Okay, yes, obviously he wasn’t The One. He never had that problem with me, and he was better than ‘decent looking-’”
“No he wasn’t.”
Sandra ignored me, continuing: “but I had very short notice and very few details on what you like!”
“A meal unmarred by sudden, explosive jizz would be a good place to start,” I suggested.
She glared at me. “Hunter, on the other hand, is rumored to have a spectaculartalent for leaving his partners drooling and satisfied, and I can tell you right now he’s an awesome date.”
“You mean you haven’t…” I paused. “But you had dinner together. Alone. And you wore heels.”
She shook her head. “He doesn’t sleep with women on the first date. That’s probably why he still has such a waiting list.”
I pointed a look at her. “He doesn’t actually have a waiting list, right? Not like that hooker from Arlington that you-”
“It’s a metaphor, yes, God. He’s a perfectly normal, normally employed, normally entertaining, normal normal…” she considered, “normal guy.” Another giggle.
I took her drink away.
“Hey!” she whined.
“No more.” I threw her drink behind the bar, then shrugged at the bartender when he glared at me. “I’m not looking for a husband, obviously, but it would be nice to have an orgasm not triggered by a showerhead.”
“Or Robert Pattinson,” she hiccupped.
I did my best to kill her with my eyes. She laughed. “You got off to Cedric. You got off to Ced~ric. You got of-”
“I swear to God,” I said, covering my face with my hands. “I’m never telling you a secret ever again.”
“Yes you will,” she grinned. “I’m your only friend!” She squeezed my hand and cheesed at me.
I gave her a look I can only describe as glum, and we bumped fists.
Afterwards, she pulled a flask out her bra.
A flask. Out of her bra.
She unscrewed it with her thumb and the smell of acetone filled the space between us.
I stared.
“You…” I couldn’t believe it. What was this, 1925? “…you drunk!”
“He-he,” she said. Like, actually the words ‘he he.’ The way they’re written. By kindergarteners.
I resisted the urge to slap her.
She took my hand. “Now let’s go shake our goblets of fire!” she screamed, pulling me onto the dance floor.
Bewildered, I let her drag me away.
Two hours later, she made our bartender very, very happy in a stockroom, and I… was already in bed.
Alone.
Mirror at 6 AM. Short black hair, blue eyes. A stripe of freckles like a Band-Aid over my nose.
I brushed my teeth—too long—and washed my face—too sharp. I slid into a sports bra—too small—and then a T-shirt—too casual.
Deftones. The shirt and the music, sprayed out of my phone as I shimmied into jeans—too skinny—and stepped into my Chucks—too childish. I have to hop to get the jeans up over my ass, but that’s the only good thing about my body.
Coffee in the dark. 6:15. I hadn’t paid my electric bill and wasn’t going to.
Propane camp stove. Thrift store kettle. A coffee thing made of ABS plastic from Bed Bath & Beyond.
The coffee was way too hot.
6:30. I sat by the window and watched the sun well up behind the buildings across the street. Light splashed to the ground. Birds sang. The music ran out as my phone died. I made a face. Drank my coffee.
Considered, not for the first time, packing up and going home. Living with mom. Or maybe dad. Getting a real job.
Being a normal normal normal girl.
But fuck that.
I was too proud.
9:45 at my stupid, stupid job. I work in/////
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Her Tongue 