[story] dress up
author: cleo/istoria (istoria)
email: istoria [at] gmail.com
"Do you need to go to the bathroom too?"
The way she says it makes it clear it's not a request so much as a desperate plea. The honey haired beauty has been sticking close to me all night. She, the girl who could get any man in this bar to buy her whatever she wanted, let alone a drink, decided to sit next to the ugliest girl in the joint.
I didn't feel angry about it, she doesn't strike me as the type that pulls this so they can feel better about themselves, so they can look even prettier in comparison. The look in her eyes holds no malice, simply a naiveté that broadcasts her inexperience in the big city. Probably a country girl out to live her life a bit only to find this part of the world eats little corn-fed pageant queens for dinner.
She's nervous, even though she invited the two men next to us to sit down. I glance over her shoulder at the news playing on the television just above the bartender's head. They're reporting on Lucy Bennet, a slim fit brunette who has gone missing. She's the fifth one this month and the police can only stand in front of the flashing camera and promise they're doing all they can. The reporters ask them if there's a serial killer on the loose and the chief looks torn. How can you have a serial killer if there are no bodies?
I stand up and take my purse in hand as I fall into step behind the sashaying mini skirt that hugs her hips. What was her name again? Something Southern. Annabelle, Isabel, Liberty Bell for all I know.
"Thanks," she says as we clear the bathroom door. I start to think my fixation on 'bell' was more related to her voice then her name. "I just... you know..." she laughs. "Girls always travel in packs, I reckon."
I smile a bit and lean by the sink. I don't have to go, just figured it would be less awkward if I followed rather then question what she was so afraid of in this bathroom. There are at least five other women in here, all clustered and giggling amongst themselves.
"I love that color!" one of them says walking to me. "Where did you get it?"
I shrug. I really don't recall. "Picked it up somewhere," I manage, turning my attention to the closed stall and wondering what is taking Bell Girl so long. I tug on my stockings and frown as I feel them tear. Son of a bitch, I just bought these this morning.
"Are you okay?" she asks, the flushing sound of the toilet drowning out the first few syllables. But I don't need to hear them to know what Bell Girl is saying. She's full of concern, being the polite young lady she was taught to be before she threw it all away and ran to a city that treats everyone equally horribly.
I pull at the stocking with a sigh. "This sucks," I say, kicking the floor slightly. It might be the nylons but it's also the atmosphere. I hate bars, I hate trying to fit in at them. But that's what young single women are supposed to do, right?
"Yeah," Bell Girl agrees. "Those guys are kind of creepy... sorry. Just wanted someone to buy us a drink."
I look at the gaggle of women who leave and realize we're alone in the rundown bathroom, but I can hear the tap tap tapping of feet on the tile. I scrunch my nose in disgust.
"I'm leaving," I say. The night is a wash. Bell Girl can stay here and have men buy her drinks. All I want to do is go home and curl under my covers with a pint of ice cream like any good PMS-ing middle aged single.
"Oh," she says, disappointed. Not just that. She's afraid. She must have used up all her courage just to leave her farm house. "Oh yeah, that's cool," she continues even though it's obvious that it's not.
I want to roll my eyes, I want to tell her to grow up but I'm not that mean. Instead, I watch her twirl that perfect corn silk hair of hers for less then a second before my resolve buckles.
"Look, let's just blow," I say. "Grab a few pints of chocolate ice cream from the bodega and watch whatever's on Lifetime."
Her blue eyes light up and I see real happiness there. She's not just afraid and out of place, she’s alone. And I'm apparently the first person who's even looked her way kindly, let alone invited her someplace, even if it is my shoebox of an apartment.
"Oh! Yay, that'd be great," she smiles. I try to ignore the fact that her teeth are perfect too, like pearls on a necklace. I pull at my stringy blond hair, suddenly conscious of how awful I must look next to her. I tug on the scarf around my neck, wishing I had gone with the burgundy one instead of this yellow monstrosity.
"Let's go out the back," I tell her, just really not wanting to deal with the men waiting at our table. I've heard it all before, 'just ditch the dog and we'll show you a good time.' Bastards deserve to sit there and rot waiting for us for an hour.
I start to walk and she takes my hand. I'm all too conscious of how soft her skin is. Bell Girl may have lived on a farm but she obviously never worked a day on it.
I take it firmly and lead her out. I'm not the ugly duck to her swan now. I'm the born and bred city dweller who knows how to maneuver through the packed crowd around the DJ and slip into the back. I know enough Spanish to yell back at the washers who shout crude things as we pass. I'm not even fazed when the exit dumps us into a dark alley.
Bell Girl is. She squeezes my hand and starts looking nervously over her shoulder. I don't want to make the annoyed sound that escapes from my mouth, but come on! This is hipster central; it's probably the safest part of the city unless you're a credit card.
"Sorry," she says, hearing it and loosening up on my hand. "I just... got a weird vibe from those guys and I thought..."
She thinks I'm going to ditch her, that her obvious unfamiliarity with the city makes her a pariah. I take her hand and keep pulling her along. "They were totally sketchy," I agree. "Probably put something in our drinks while we were gone."
She looks completely horrified at the thought. "Really?" she squeaks. "Do you think... do you think they were the serial killers?"
I roll my eyes. "The cops don't know what they're dealing with," I reply. "They just have a few girls go missing and don't remember that the same thing happens every month." Just most of the time, the girls that get lost don't have anyone to miss them.
"I just don't understand," she whispers.
"What?" I ask, wondering why I'm entertaining her. Really, why the hell did I invite her back with me? She's so out of place I feel like I'm losing brain cells just talking with her.
Right, right, this is what girls do. They hang out with each other and talk about things like that's going to make any difference in this miserable life. I need to stop trying to so damn hard and accept that this city is eating me alive slowly, that happiness is not just fleeting but completely gone.
"How someone can just disappear..."
"Lots of people do," I snap back. "Just most of the time, no one cares that they're gone." She frowns, pulling down on her perfect cheek bones as she mulls this over. "Some people just aren't missed." Her frown deepens.
The sick part of me, the sadistic part, decides to really twist the knife. "Anyone going to miss you?" I ask.
She flinches and I can't help but feel a bit of happiness over that. Thought so. Someone would have missed her once but now I see it. A loud argument, insults thrown back and forth. A young girl desperate for independence struggling against the bonds her parents think are security. I want to tell her that they'll miss her if she disappears, that they probably already do.
But we turn the corner and it's my apartment. She starts to head up the steps but I hold her back. She looks back at me with confusion and I nod to the steps leading down.
"You live in the basement?" she asks, peeking down into the darkness like she's looking for vipers in the shadows.
"Could be worse, could be a box on the street."
She laughs, some of the gaiety from earlier returning to her face. "I guess. You don't strike me as the type to live in a box."
I reach into my purse and start fishing around for keys. "Yeah? What do I strike you as?"
She watches as I put the key in the lock and shrugs. "You're real sophisticated. Like your shoes are so pretty and the scarf around your neck makes you look all European."
I want to concentrate on the fact that that last word sounded more like "You're a-peeing" but I look down at my shoes instead. "Oh, these?"
"They must have cost a fortune."
I shrug. "Nah, just found them somewhere."
I push the door open, trying not to get frustrated at how much effort it takes. The wood is damp and has swollen so that it's near impossible to open. When I close it behind us, I have to push on it with all my might until I hear it click. She jumps at that sound and then laughs.
"I don't know why I'm so on edge," she says.
"Instinct," I reply, putting the bag on the ground and kicking off my shoes.
She looks confused but pushes it away instead, looking at the bag by my bar feet. "That's nice too. Is it Louis Vuitton?"
"No, it's Lucy Bennet," I reply. "Near impossible to get but I fought for it."
There's passing recognition on her face as she struggles with what the tingling in the back of her mind is trying to tell her. I take off my jacket and hang it on the stand by the door. The wig follows and I place it like a hat on top of the coat. The scarf gets tossed there too and I can't help but scratch my neck. Thing always makes me itchy.
She’s looking at me, those perfect blue eyes gone all round, her skin paler than I thought it could get. She's putting it together as she starts to step back.
"God, you're not going to cry too?" I ask just as a pathetic sob escapes her. I sigh. This is always the worst part. I just want a nice quiet evening at home and I go and be all nice and try to invite a friend with me. All I really wanted was some ice cream and bad movies, because that's what girls are supposed to do, right?
Just like girls are supposed to be understanding. But then, they never are. That bitch Lucy Bennet laughed when the wig fell off during the movie. She didn't laugh too much when I rammed her head into the wall. I just wanted to have a nice evening with a girl friend. I'm fucking entitled to that. This city is such a miserable hell hole but I thought here I'd get some acceptance.
"Please don't hurt me," Bell Girl whimpers. That's even worse then the crying. Lucy cried, tried to say she was sorry but I'd heard that laughter all my life. It wasn't so bad, not as bad as the beatings from the high school boys. But here... here the laughter hurt more.
So I'm not as pretty as you, there's no reason to be mean. I just wanted to have a typical girl's night but they always ruin it. Oh, you're one 'those' guys. No, I'm not. I'm a girl, just like you.
Or maybe that's the problem. I'm not quite like you yet. But if I take Lucy's bag, Clara's lipstick, Anna's shoes and Misty's bra and panties, I'm getting closer.
I still can't remember Bell Girl's name but I'll hear on the news by next week I'm sure. I look her up and down and smile.
"I love your dress."
the end
email: istoria [at] gmail.com
"Do you need to go to the bathroom too?"
The way she says it makes it clear it's not a request so much as a desperate plea. The honey haired beauty has been sticking close to me all night. She, the girl who could get any man in this bar to buy her whatever she wanted, let alone a drink, decided to sit next to the ugliest girl in the joint.
I didn't feel angry about it, she doesn't strike me as the type that pulls this so they can feel better about themselves, so they can look even prettier in comparison. The look in her eyes holds no malice, simply a naiveté that broadcasts her inexperience in the big city. Probably a country girl out to live her life a bit only to find this part of the world eats little corn-fed pageant queens for dinner.
She's nervous, even though she invited the two men next to us to sit down. I glance over her shoulder at the news playing on the television just above the bartender's head. They're reporting on Lucy Bennet, a slim fit brunette who has gone missing. She's the fifth one this month and the police can only stand in front of the flashing camera and promise they're doing all they can. The reporters ask them if there's a serial killer on the loose and the chief looks torn. How can you have a serial killer if there are no bodies?
I stand up and take my purse in hand as I fall into step behind the sashaying mini skirt that hugs her hips. What was her name again? Something Southern. Annabelle, Isabel, Liberty Bell for all I know.
"Thanks," she says as we clear the bathroom door. I start to think my fixation on 'bell' was more related to her voice then her name. "I just... you know..." she laughs. "Girls always travel in packs, I reckon."
I smile a bit and lean by the sink. I don't have to go, just figured it would be less awkward if I followed rather then question what she was so afraid of in this bathroom. There are at least five other women in here, all clustered and giggling amongst themselves.
"I love that color!" one of them says walking to me. "Where did you get it?"
I shrug. I really don't recall. "Picked it up somewhere," I manage, turning my attention to the closed stall and wondering what is taking Bell Girl so long. I tug on my stockings and frown as I feel them tear. Son of a bitch, I just bought these this morning.
"Are you okay?" she asks, the flushing sound of the toilet drowning out the first few syllables. But I don't need to hear them to know what Bell Girl is saying. She's full of concern, being the polite young lady she was taught to be before she threw it all away and ran to a city that treats everyone equally horribly.
I pull at the stocking with a sigh. "This sucks," I say, kicking the floor slightly. It might be the nylons but it's also the atmosphere. I hate bars, I hate trying to fit in at them. But that's what young single women are supposed to do, right?
"Yeah," Bell Girl agrees. "Those guys are kind of creepy... sorry. Just wanted someone to buy us a drink."
I look at the gaggle of women who leave and realize we're alone in the rundown bathroom, but I can hear the tap tap tapping of feet on the tile. I scrunch my nose in disgust.
"I'm leaving," I say. The night is a wash. Bell Girl can stay here and have men buy her drinks. All I want to do is go home and curl under my covers with a pint of ice cream like any good PMS-ing middle aged single.
"Oh," she says, disappointed. Not just that. She's afraid. She must have used up all her courage just to leave her farm house. "Oh yeah, that's cool," she continues even though it's obvious that it's not.
I want to roll my eyes, I want to tell her to grow up but I'm not that mean. Instead, I watch her twirl that perfect corn silk hair of hers for less then a second before my resolve buckles.
"Look, let's just blow," I say. "Grab a few pints of chocolate ice cream from the bodega and watch whatever's on Lifetime."
Her blue eyes light up and I see real happiness there. She's not just afraid and out of place, she’s alone. And I'm apparently the first person who's even looked her way kindly, let alone invited her someplace, even if it is my shoebox of an apartment.
"Oh! Yay, that'd be great," she smiles. I try to ignore the fact that her teeth are perfect too, like pearls on a necklace. I pull at my stringy blond hair, suddenly conscious of how awful I must look next to her. I tug on the scarf around my neck, wishing I had gone with the burgundy one instead of this yellow monstrosity.
"Let's go out the back," I tell her, just really not wanting to deal with the men waiting at our table. I've heard it all before, 'just ditch the dog and we'll show you a good time.' Bastards deserve to sit there and rot waiting for us for an hour.
I start to walk and she takes my hand. I'm all too conscious of how soft her skin is. Bell Girl may have lived on a farm but she obviously never worked a day on it.
I take it firmly and lead her out. I'm not the ugly duck to her swan now. I'm the born and bred city dweller who knows how to maneuver through the packed crowd around the DJ and slip into the back. I know enough Spanish to yell back at the washers who shout crude things as we pass. I'm not even fazed when the exit dumps us into a dark alley.
Bell Girl is. She squeezes my hand and starts looking nervously over her shoulder. I don't want to make the annoyed sound that escapes from my mouth, but come on! This is hipster central; it's probably the safest part of the city unless you're a credit card.
"Sorry," she says, hearing it and loosening up on my hand. "I just... got a weird vibe from those guys and I thought..."
She thinks I'm going to ditch her, that her obvious unfamiliarity with the city makes her a pariah. I take her hand and keep pulling her along. "They were totally sketchy," I agree. "Probably put something in our drinks while we were gone."
She looks completely horrified at the thought. "Really?" she squeaks. "Do you think... do you think they were the serial killers?"
I roll my eyes. "The cops don't know what they're dealing with," I reply. "They just have a few girls go missing and don't remember that the same thing happens every month." Just most of the time, the girls that get lost don't have anyone to miss them.
"I just don't understand," she whispers.
"What?" I ask, wondering why I'm entertaining her. Really, why the hell did I invite her back with me? She's so out of place I feel like I'm losing brain cells just talking with her.
Right, right, this is what girls do. They hang out with each other and talk about things like that's going to make any difference in this miserable life. I need to stop trying to so damn hard and accept that this city is eating me alive slowly, that happiness is not just fleeting but completely gone.
"How someone can just disappear..."
"Lots of people do," I snap back. "Just most of the time, no one cares that they're gone." She frowns, pulling down on her perfect cheek bones as she mulls this over. "Some people just aren't missed." Her frown deepens.
The sick part of me, the sadistic part, decides to really twist the knife. "Anyone going to miss you?" I ask.
She flinches and I can't help but feel a bit of happiness over that. Thought so. Someone would have missed her once but now I see it. A loud argument, insults thrown back and forth. A young girl desperate for independence struggling against the bonds her parents think are security. I want to tell her that they'll miss her if she disappears, that they probably already do.
But we turn the corner and it's my apartment. She starts to head up the steps but I hold her back. She looks back at me with confusion and I nod to the steps leading down.
"You live in the basement?" she asks, peeking down into the darkness like she's looking for vipers in the shadows.
"Could be worse, could be a box on the street."
She laughs, some of the gaiety from earlier returning to her face. "I guess. You don't strike me as the type to live in a box."
I reach into my purse and start fishing around for keys. "Yeah? What do I strike you as?"
She watches as I put the key in the lock and shrugs. "You're real sophisticated. Like your shoes are so pretty and the scarf around your neck makes you look all European."
I want to concentrate on the fact that that last word sounded more like "You're a-peeing" but I look down at my shoes instead. "Oh, these?"
"They must have cost a fortune."
I shrug. "Nah, just found them somewhere."
I push the door open, trying not to get frustrated at how much effort it takes. The wood is damp and has swollen so that it's near impossible to open. When I close it behind us, I have to push on it with all my might until I hear it click. She jumps at that sound and then laughs.
"I don't know why I'm so on edge," she says.
"Instinct," I reply, putting the bag on the ground and kicking off my shoes.
She looks confused but pushes it away instead, looking at the bag by my bar feet. "That's nice too. Is it Louis Vuitton?"
"No, it's Lucy Bennet," I reply. "Near impossible to get but I fought for it."
There's passing recognition on her face as she struggles with what the tingling in the back of her mind is trying to tell her. I take off my jacket and hang it on the stand by the door. The wig follows and I place it like a hat on top of the coat. The scarf gets tossed there too and I can't help but scratch my neck. Thing always makes me itchy.
She’s looking at me, those perfect blue eyes gone all round, her skin paler than I thought it could get. She's putting it together as she starts to step back.
"God, you're not going to cry too?" I ask just as a pathetic sob escapes her. I sigh. This is always the worst part. I just want a nice quiet evening at home and I go and be all nice and try to invite a friend with me. All I really wanted was some ice cream and bad movies, because that's what girls are supposed to do, right?
Just like girls are supposed to be understanding. But then, they never are. That bitch Lucy Bennet laughed when the wig fell off during the movie. She didn't laugh too much when I rammed her head into the wall. I just wanted to have a nice evening with a girl friend. I'm fucking entitled to that. This city is such a miserable hell hole but I thought here I'd get some acceptance.
"Please don't hurt me," Bell Girl whimpers. That's even worse then the crying. Lucy cried, tried to say she was sorry but I'd heard that laughter all my life. It wasn't so bad, not as bad as the beatings from the high school boys. But here... here the laughter hurt more.
So I'm not as pretty as you, there's no reason to be mean. I just wanted to have a typical girl's night but they always ruin it. Oh, you're one 'those' guys. No, I'm not. I'm a girl, just like you.
Or maybe that's the problem. I'm not quite like you yet. But if I take Lucy's bag, Clara's lipstick, Anna's shoes and Misty's bra and panties, I'm getting closer.
I still can't remember Bell Girl's name but I'll hear on the news by next week I'm sure. I look her up and down and smile.
"I love your dress."
the end