Everything is completly out of control. I should admit straight away that I've been drinking, loves.
The two of them are making me crazy. They aren't speaking. But that's better than the verbal smackdown they had going before. Sterling was actually screaming. At one point she put her hands on the side of her face and let loose a real holler. A rebel yell--only no one chanted, more, more, more. I haven't seen her do something like that since she used to party. It was fine form, let me tell you.
TRUE, meanwhile, is on a real bender. A three day party, just like in that Pixies song. She sat on the floor shielding her eyes from the ceiling light that Sterling insisted be left on.
"What, are you scared of the dark," TRUE slurred. There was a red wine stain all over the white Polo shirt that she wore, which happened to be mine.
She pulled up her jeans and picked at a scab on her knee until it was an open sore and her nails were a mess.
"Fuck me," she muttered.
"Fuck, fuck, fuuuuhhhck."
Listen, I don't know. Something gave way between them. It started on Sunday afternoon, when TRUE banged her shin and accused Sterling of not giving a fuck. Or something else equally assinine.
I can't spell that right now.
I've told them both that something like this was destined to happen. I've especially tried to impress upon Sterling the urgent need for her to get over her "thing" for TRUE. It isn't going to happen, I've told her. You are not what she's looking for.
I told her that if she kept on pining away, she risked TRUE's patience wearing thin and her own desire growing overripe and over-insistant.
You've got to know when to give it up, I told her.
TRUE's allowed you the opportunity to save face.
Enigmatic to the hilt, the stalward Sterling declared that she had no face to save, to which I can't remember how I responded.
Everything's a blur. My laptop almost got jacked. And I was in Stonewall that night the woman got shot! Earlier. I wish I stayed.
Drama, of any sort, sends TRUE out to the bars. Often, at the end of the night, the bar comes home with her. A steady stream of fags has been stomping through the apartment at all hours, which you might think would make me happy, but does not. I have to watch these coke queens like a hawk, lest they run off with my rack system, or one of my Tiffany vases, or my vintage Stroke magazines in the wicker basket I made myself, back in junior high.
I sit with my rum and coke or my cranberry apple tea or my mineral water and smoke my Dunhill menthols and watch, kind of like I'm doing now. They are all drunk and eager for something to happen. They laugh at her jokes, they look to her for cues.
She runs her hands through her hair, carelessly, like a boy.
Her aura is all confidence, as she gets up to flip the record. She says stupid things, and acts interested in people she despises. They gather round, eager and willing to buy it all--too drunk or stupid to know that she's selling herself short. They don't seem to notice the nervous glances she keeps throwing back to me.
They don't notice the chinks in the armor.
They haven't seen her they way I have.
Maybe no one has.