(no subject)
Carla stands before the mirror with a hand on either hip, examining her feet with great difficulty.
She catches me watching from her bed across the room. We're all watching her, me and the two guys we're about to go out with. It's her bedroom, so she's the center of attention. She likes it that way. "Boot or shoe," she demands, as though we've been concealing strong opinions on the matter all along.
They both have stilletto heels, so I can't really see a difference. "Boot," I say. "It covers the tattoo."
She frowns more deeply. "What's wrong with a rose on my ankle?" she says. "I put it there for a reason."
I shrug. "It's a nice club, so maybe they like, won't--" I cut myself off, or rather, her look does.
"Are you saying that only trashy people have tattoos so they'll think I'm trash if they see mine and not let us in?"
My face flushes. She's been waxing defensive all evening, moreso than her usual paranoid demeanor anyway. "Look," I say, struggling to swim through the angry words that surface in my head by gesturing wildly with my hands. "I'm not saying anything about anyone. I shouldn't have opened my lousy mouth. Just wear the boots; they look better, ok? That's all I'm saying."
She keeps her pierce gaze trained on me, then gradually turns to our dates, whose smirks fade into attentiveness. "Boot or shoe," she says.
"I think the shoe," her date dumbly offers. "Shows off more skin."
Carla tosses her hands over her head and grunts in frustration. "Fuck this. I'm going barefoot. No, maybe I'll just kick you all out of my room and I won't go at all." She turns to me. "You can have them both for yourself. It will be more fun that way."
"Don't," I breathe.
"Don't what?"
"Don't start this. Wear the shoes, gorgeous."
"Oh the shoe now, huh?" She sneers, then glares intensely down at her left foot, which is entrapped by the black tie up shoe in question.
"Yes,they're beautiful."
"They really are," my date concurs.
We all turn to look at him.
"Fine," she says. "Shoe it is."
Then the room softens and blurs into to silence, and we start to gather our bags and jackets because it's getting late and the cab will be here soon. And Carla is bouncing up and down, brushing blush onto the apples of her cheeks and smiling while she does it (for contouring purposes only) when her date opens his mouth and the devil creeps out with spindly horns hissing, "Or maybe the boot looks better..."
She catches me watching from her bed across the room. We're all watching her, me and the two guys we're about to go out with. It's her bedroom, so she's the center of attention. She likes it that way. "Boot or shoe," she demands, as though we've been concealing strong opinions on the matter all along.
They both have stilletto heels, so I can't really see a difference. "Boot," I say. "It covers the tattoo."
She frowns more deeply. "What's wrong with a rose on my ankle?" she says. "I put it there for a reason."
I shrug. "It's a nice club, so maybe they like, won't--" I cut myself off, or rather, her look does.
"Are you saying that only trashy people have tattoos so they'll think I'm trash if they see mine and not let us in?"
My face flushes. She's been waxing defensive all evening, moreso than her usual paranoid demeanor anyway. "Look," I say, struggling to swim through the angry words that surface in my head by gesturing wildly with my hands. "I'm not saying anything about anyone. I shouldn't have opened my lousy mouth. Just wear the boots; they look better, ok? That's all I'm saying."
She keeps her pierce gaze trained on me, then gradually turns to our dates, whose smirks fade into attentiveness. "Boot or shoe," she says.
"I think the shoe," her date dumbly offers. "Shows off more skin."
Carla tosses her hands over her head and grunts in frustration. "Fuck this. I'm going barefoot. No, maybe I'll just kick you all out of my room and I won't go at all." She turns to me. "You can have them both for yourself. It will be more fun that way."
"Don't," I breathe.
"Don't what?"
"Don't start this. Wear the shoes, gorgeous."
"Oh the shoe now, huh?" She sneers, then glares intensely down at her left foot, which is entrapped by the black tie up shoe in question.
"Yes,they're beautiful."
"They really are," my date concurs.
We all turn to look at him.
"Fine," she says. "Shoe it is."
Then the room softens and blurs into to silence, and we start to gather our bags and jackets because it's getting late and the cab will be here soon. And Carla is bouncing up and down, brushing blush onto the apples of her cheeks and smiling while she does it (for contouring purposes only) when her date opens his mouth and the devil creeps out with spindly horns hissing, "Or maybe the boot looks better..."