shallowdeep

reflections

red bricks fade.  crumble to lower downtown parking lots.  slow for traffic light, open sunroof.  man on bike pedals past as dusk sets.  light.  green, in gear.  left.  travel uptown past carriages.  too happy tourists, wearing shorts.  ultraman, speakers to early fall air.  casual melodic aggression.  pass customs house and 'for rent' sign.
pass christian bookstore with an empty parking lot and glance at closed bridge 2 blocks over.  pass strip club with full parking lot.  buckle of the bible belt.  righteous bumper stickers and sunday mornings.  homeless man saunters, girl on moped smiles.  cross highway, weave through traffic, caffeinated.
look for parking, waste minutes that seem like hours.  get to coco, line, patience, talk to todd.  order italian cream soda and hummus.  outside, dirty painted red cement, peeling.  ferns, vines, flowers and music that's too loud.  harass a new friend online.  a girl who is too young, too tan and too skinny asks what i drink.  tell her, but see this will lead to trouble.  resume writing.  punk rocks boys walk past.  girl with a shaved head, a heavy chain and chuck taylors.  guitar heavier, drums pounding, insistent.  it's 70 degrees, darkness beings to fall.  time for the next stop.

posted by: shallowdeep at 08/23/06 19:43 | link | comments |

"what a swank place," monica says as we walk into the building's foyer.  and it is. gleaming granite floors.  the front desk is wood, in the old style.  but it's maple not walnut like a swiss chalet. 

"posh, that's what it is," her friend says.

"pish posh who gives a fuck?" i say, smiling.  teeth.  "let's find this place."

"can i help you?" the guy at the desk. make him for an asshole, but sometimes i'm too judgmental.  working on that.  you know, lately.

"yes, ummm...benton.  we're looking for benton," monica says.  sweet, suggestive, seductive.  eyes gleam and beam.  "i think they're on like the 53rd floor."

"54th floor" the guy corrects her, but in a more helpful tone.  he's definitely an asshole.  monica, fucking monica gets them every time.  "they're in suite c. you take a left out of the elevator, and it'll be right there," he's fading. "on the left."

"thank you," she says.  winks.  disgusting.  walk, hit the elevator.  press the button.  54. it's bright in here.  monica wears a black vera wang dress.  her friend, someone she met in a club last weekend.  i think she knows her from before.  i hope she's cool.  she wears jeans, a t-shirt and she's got a kate spade handbag.  i fucking love kate spade.  eyes go dark, elevator opens.  out, left, door, c.  open.  in.  we're in.

people talk, wine poured. 

"grab a glass," the host says.  i do.  then another.  ok, we're talking, having a good time. 

"most of these people are actually good looking.  better than that lame ass party.  you know that one a couple weeks ago?" monica says as she struts by with that runway strut as i talk to some blonde.  the blonde works for a magazine or something.  whatever.  i need a drink.  my eyes flip open, scan for the bar.  through the crowd, sound.  a bottle pours, ice slushes.  maneuver, order.  drink.  one for the road.

a girl comes up to me and says she knows me from somewhere.

"weren't you at that party like a couple weeks ago?  out in the country?" she insists. slovenly drunk.  a redhead, a little too hot for my taste.

"yes,"  i agree.  "there were a lot of good looking people at that party."  the way i say it, i almost believe it.  for a moment.  smile, teeth.  "careful with those razors," silently.  the drive is coming.  like a freight train, un-fucking stoppable.  can't wait much longer.  contemplate the redhead briefly, like taking her to the bathroom, or a closet, a bedroom.  under the sink.  where the fuck is monica?  we didn't plan this too well.  she had her friend, hillary, or something.  anyway, i wasn't sure if she was cool, and it didn't really come up.  but now, i can't fucking wait.  my teeth grind.  the noise,  a rhythm now as they work and work.  the redhead explains that she works in an art gallery while she gets her master's.  nyu girl.  not slutty enough to be columbia.

where's monica?

"hey stranger,"  familiar.  behind, monica.  "getting hungry yet?  who's your friend?"

"this is, ummm jessica"  it comes out more like a question than an introduction.  "she goes to nyu."

"how'd you know?" jessica squeaks.  "i didn't tell you."

i can't fucking wait to get away from this broad, and monica sees it.  enjoys it.

change course.  "i'm hungry, famished," i say. "you want to eat here?  or take out?"

"oh let's eat here," monica.  smiles.  fucking monica.

"all right, let's do it."

monica grabs jessica.  we look now, intercept hillary.  find a room, find a room.  heart pounds, ears hear a napkin hitting a trashbag.  "look at this," monica smiles like a realtor, opening the door.  a bedroom.  four walk in.
 
monica gets coke from hillary who gets it from her kate spade bag that i fucking love.  she pours it out.  cuts it up.  "jessica?"  she offers a straw, platinum.

hillary closes the door.  "she is cool. or paranoid?"  i think.

jessica bends over to do the line and it's a little big and the shit is really fucking good.  monica bends over to whisper in jessica's ear.

she unloads.  blood.  everywhere.  instant.  i'm all over the other side of the redhead's neck.  it's only been a few seconds.  beautiful.  like heroin and a '61 haut brion rolled into one.  not perfect, redheads they burn too fucking hot.  that alcohol, alkaline burn.

hillary tries to light a cigarette, her lighter's on the fritz.  she sighs, opens up her kate spade bag and digs for matches.

posted by: shallowdeep at 08/11/06 05:35 | link | comments (2) |