Home game: the straw that stirs the drink
The ice cubes in her rum and coke clink gently against the sides of the glass as she swirls the yellow straw. She stops, takes a small sip of the sweet drink. Today she needs the straw for its intended purpose. It is keeping her lipstick from smearing.
For once she is wearing a metric shit-ton of make-up. She wanted it for armour. She couldn't leave the house until creams and powders concealed every flaw in her skin. Her freckles have disappeared. Her red lips are glowingly inhuman, redder and poutier than any lips found in nature. Eyeliner, eyeshadow, blush, everything plucked and groomed as fiercely as a 1940s movie star. She wishes she were as glamourous, as quick with a one liner, as ready to melt in the arms of someone dashing and debonaire.
She pulls her phone out of her purse to check the time. Seventeen minutes after. Her date is late. If she were really a 40s movie queen, she'd be smoking a long cigarette, plumes of smoke roiling up around her sexily. But there's a by-law against that, and anyway she quit a long time ago. Twenty-one minutes after. She takes another tiny pull from the straw.
"Everything okay, miss?" says the waiter.
He is young, thin and raw-boned, dark haired. He sounds as if he genuinely cares. She crosses her legs, letting her skirt slowly slide up so he can the a glimpse of her thigh highs. Doubtless he's seen plenty of younger women with better legs in shorter skirts, but she has this theory that it isn't what's revealed, it's what concealed that counts. He swallows.
"Everything's fine," she purrs.
This is a lie, of course. Thirty minutes after, and she drains her drink dry. She throws some coins on the table, stands on her red heels and prepares for her dramatic exit. She will sashay across the room. Heads will turn to follow her egress. One old man will describe her as like two cats fighting under a blanket, oy.
Instead she stumbles and a hand catches her elbow. Her heart contracts, but it's only the waiter.
"Thanks," she says, tired suddenly of pretending to be seductive and alluring. He lets her go and she walks to the door, head down. There is nothing here for her. No spark of love or lust, no oblivion through alcohol.
Faint red lines top the straw in the abandoned glass. The waiter clears it away. He is thinking about his biology assignment, about the party he's going to hit after his shift ends tonight.
For once she is wearing a metric shit-ton of make-up. She wanted it for armour. She couldn't leave the house until creams and powders concealed every flaw in her skin. Her freckles have disappeared. Her red lips are glowingly inhuman, redder and poutier than any lips found in nature. Eyeliner, eyeshadow, blush, everything plucked and groomed as fiercely as a 1940s movie star. She wishes she were as glamourous, as quick with a one liner, as ready to melt in the arms of someone dashing and debonaire.
She pulls her phone out of her purse to check the time. Seventeen minutes after. Her date is late. If she were really a 40s movie queen, she'd be smoking a long cigarette, plumes of smoke roiling up around her sexily. But there's a by-law against that, and anyway she quit a long time ago. Twenty-one minutes after. She takes another tiny pull from the straw.
"Everything okay, miss?" says the waiter.
He is young, thin and raw-boned, dark haired. He sounds as if he genuinely cares. She crosses her legs, letting her skirt slowly slide up so he can the a glimpse of her thigh highs. Doubtless he's seen plenty of younger women with better legs in shorter skirts, but she has this theory that it isn't what's revealed, it's what concealed that counts. He swallows.
"Everything's fine," she purrs.
This is a lie, of course. Thirty minutes after, and she drains her drink dry. She throws some coins on the table, stands on her red heels and prepares for her dramatic exit. She will sashay across the room. Heads will turn to follow her egress. One old man will describe her as like two cats fighting under a blanket, oy.
Instead she stumbles and a hand catches her elbow. Her heart contracts, but it's only the waiter.
"Thanks," she says, tired suddenly of pretending to be seductive and alluring. He lets her go and she walks to the door, head down. There is nothing here for her. No spark of love or lust, no oblivion through alcohol.
Faint red lines top the straw in the abandoned glass. The waiter clears it away. He is thinking about his biology assignment, about the party he's going to hit after his shift ends tonight.