Work Text:
This is how it ends. With a one-room apartment that smells like weed and one pathetic window that looks out into the city night. I can hear a train as it softly hums on by, and for some reason it reminds me of Sean. I lay on the bed that I never want to get out of and eye my medication that sticks out over the edge of my suitcase. Zoloft, full bottle, and I wonder if it could kill me. I wonder if I should do it. I always knew it would end this way.
I’m not sure why I decide not to. It’s not a “decision,” really, there wasn’t a grand moment where I told myself - no, stop! Or I wanna live! Maybe it was the change in scenery, or the thought that Paul might still be at Camden, waiting for me, but I didn’t go through with it. I decided to go up to the roof and smoke instead. I pictured Laura hearing the news, and stopping in her tracks. Eyes wide, lip quivering. She wasn’t wearing a shirt in this fantasy, which...wasn’t weird because Laura was more often without a shirt than with. Not slut-shaming, it’s just an observation.
No, I lost my right to slut-shame at a Christmas party my first year of college.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Paul would say, looking at me like I was insane to blame myself. But his look was always a little too stern. A bit too sincere to be sincere.
And Laura would say, “fuck those guys!”
And, well, I suppose that was the problem, wasn’t it. I did, in fact, fuck those guys.
I didn’t tell Sean when it happened, I hardly knew him yet. But I would tell him years later when I ran into him in New York. We ended up having a one-night stand, and afterwards, I cried.
He told me, “you were drunk, what could you have done?”
I could’ve gone home that night, I could’ve not drunk. I could’ve not decided to lose my virginity, and I could’ve not decided to lose it to a film major, for fuck’s sake.
But enough of that. The End of the World Party was four years ago, and this Christmas, I’ll be all alone. Which is how I like it.
The night is young, but I feel old. Maybe I should kill myself. Or maybe I just need sleep.
As I begin to climb down the stairs, I realize that I’m absolutely exhausted. I can’t lower my feet any more than each step could raise up to meet them. I stumble down the stairs, and eventually fall. It’s not a full-on, fall-on-your-face-and-slip-on-a-banana-peel fall, but it’s enough to make me bend my ankle painfully and reach for the railing. My land is softened by another woman, a woman with long, platinum hair and obnoxiously fake lashes.
“Oop!” she cries out in surprise, dropping the tote bag around her arm. An assortment of objects tumble down the remaining stairs - a silver thong, a bubblegum pink wig in the style of a bob, light blue lingerie, and a sandwich bag full of cash.
I look at the woman in awe, and realize her long, platinum hair is a wig, too. She looks at me, and smiles nervously, and I realize that I’m staring. I quickly shut my jaw, and turned my eyes to the items on the stairs. I quickly begin gathering them with shaking hands and I mutter sloppy apologies, kicking myself for sounding so small.
“That’s okay!” The woman has a kind face and she takes her costumes from my arms and shoves them back in her bag.
“Thank you!” She says generously, and then looks up at me sharply. “Sorry about that - a girl’s gotta make some cash, right?”
“Absolutely!” I say with a forced enthusiasm that makes me cringe. Now I sound like Paul, trying to sound overly-supportive.
She’s looking at me with a distant smile, and I can tell she’s trying to read me. Her eyebrows furrow and her smile slowly fades. I wonder if I should’ve continued down the stairs as soon as I handed her her shit. But then, she speaks.
“You don’t look so good, honey,” she says finally, a look of concern passing over her dark eyes. Dark like mine, but much harder.
“Would you like to come back to my place for a drink?”
“Um-” The worst part of meeting people while you’re depressed is the indecisiveness. I find it incredibly difficult to want to do anything, but the only thing more difficult is coming up with an excuse.
Apparently I paused for too long, because the woman continues up the stairs, and makes a gesture that I should follow her.
“Come on!” She calls.
Her apartment is nearly identical to mine, but brighter, somehow. More clean.
She flicks on the light, and twists around to extend her hand.
“My name is Jane,” she says with a curious smile. My heart leaps into my throat, and I’m worried that my palms are sweating, but I take her hand anyway.
“Lauren.” I say hoarsely, my pulse pounding for no real reason.
“That’s pretty,” she says, crossing over to a small, round table.
“Thanks, so are you.” I freeze, panic striking me down. I open my mouth to correct myself, but Jane beats me to it.
“Smooth!” She chuckles. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Yes, smooth. I knew exactly what I was doing.
Jane puts her bag on the table, and slips off her wig. Underneath, she has short, messy blue hair that sticks up like Bob Dylan’s. She’s just sorting her laundry, but she looks so relaxed and graceful doing it that I decide right then that she is the coolest person I’ve ever met. Cooler than Sean Bateman, even. And much nicer.
Suddenly, I miss Laura, but it doesn’t sting much this time. Not in the company of Jane.
“So, Ms. Lauren,” she says with a smirk. “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a writer.” I tell her, suddenly craving another cigarette.
“A journalist or a novelist?”
“A journalist, I guess, - I write obituaries.”
Jane freezes and her face turns to stone. I think I must’ve upset her, but I’m not sure how. My stomach turns with anxiety. Maybe she’s tired of my presence, maybe I should just leave. But then she smiles again, though it’s forced and shallow. She pushes her laundry to the floor, and sits at the table, suddenly looking exhausted.
“I had a friend who wrote obituaries,” she says, staring off vacantly.
“Oh, what’s her name? Maybe we’ve crossed paths.”
“His name was Daniel Wolf.”
“Was?”
“He died last May.”
“Oh,” I scramble for words, but I can’t think of anything better than-
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
I hate when people apologize for things that aren’t their fault. It’s just filler words, honestly. I think it would be much better to just be silent.
“That’s okay,” Jane says, and swings her legs around the side of the chair. For a brief second I can see a question-mark shaped mark on her leg. She gestures to the seat opposite hers, and I sit down gratefully. The chairs are all carved wood, and the table is round. It reminds me of a doll-house kitchen. All small, and simple, but nice. Really nice.
“Would you like that drink?” she asks, suddenly perking up. “I have wine, beer, vodka…”
She lists the options off her fingers, and I suddenly feel like crying.
“Do - do you have tea?” I ask quietly, and I hate how vulnerable my own voice is.
“Sure!” Jane nods enthusiastically. “I always have tea - I spent a few years in London.”
She chuckles, and gets to her feet stiffly.
“Really?” I ask, but I’m not actually surprised. She seems worldly and confident.
“Yup!”
“Studying?”
Jane tilts her head from side to side as if debating with herself.
“Something like that. Stripping.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” There it was again. It wasn’t my fault that Jane had to strip, but here I was, apologizing when there was nothing else to say.
“Don’t be!” Jane exclaimed, turning up the flame on the stove. “I love it!”
“You do?”
“Yes!”
“What do you love about it?”
Jane crosses her arms, and leans back against the counter.
“I love the attention, the music. I love the anonymity. Like, everyone who comes in has a different picture of who you should be...and you adjust. It’s like acting!”
“Are the men nice to you?”
“Not all are men. Most are though. And yes, they are!”
“Don’t they look down on you?”
“Are you looking down on me?”
Jane tilted her head to one side. She wasn’t angry, she just seemed curious. I felt my face turn red, and I shook my head vigorously.
“Oh, I’m - I’m sorry.” And I meant it this time, I was.
“On the contrary. They treat me like a mother fucking goddess!”
She whooped, and spun back around, stirring the tea.
I worried that I offended her, though it didn’t seem like that at all. Hoping to show that I really liked her and that I didn’t intend to put her down, I said-
“That’s great, I’m really happy for you!” But then I worried I sounded insincere and condescending. If I came across that way, though, Jane didn’t let on.
“Thank you!” She sang, slowly crossing to the table and placing a mug in front of me and then one in front of herself.
I lifted my mug, expecting green tea, but got a taste of something I liked much better. It tasted like a candle Laura would’ve lit in our dorm, like cinnamon and sugar.
Jane eyed me and then spoke again.
“You should come and see me, sometime.” She said, without taking her eyes off of me.
“Come and see you - strip?” My voice sounded unnaturally high, and I hated myself for it.
“Mm-hm. It’s not just that, though. I get to dance, too. It’s a whole show.”
“I would love to.” I say, trying to hide the fact that I was clearly blushing. But as Jane giggled, I realized it was true - that was something that I would truly love to do. I smile warmly, my skin tight from the heat in my face, and Jane is suddenly serious. She stands up and looks at me, cautiously, as if she thought I might have a bug in my hair. I scratch the back of my head in case. Then she slowly walks towards me, and kneels down so we’re level.
Then Jane kisses me.
Her skin is soft, and she tastes like cinnamon and sugar, like the tea. It’s become my new favorite taste, and smell. The kiss sends a little thrill through my body, and it’s like I’ve been shocked back to life. My heart pounds and I can feel my blood flowing warmly through me, even as she pulls away.
Suddenly I’m glad I didn’t swallow those pills.
I don’t want her to pull away, but I let her. I look at her perfect skin and her messy blue hair through half-lidded eyes.
I kiss her, wanting more. And I run my hands over her body. Over her soft skin, and the question-mark on her leg. I embrace her, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve embraced anyone in god-knows-how-long.
Finally, we pull away and my lips are tingly with pleasure. I want her. But it’s more than that, - I like her, I really like her. I don’t push it any farther, because I don’t want this to become a one-night-stand. I don’t want Jane to fade into just a friendly face that I see around my building. She gets to her feet, and does a little spin towards the counter. She scribbles something on her notepad and rips out the page.
“This is where I work,” she says, and even her pen is blue. I take it and fold it away carefully.
I stand, and for a moment, we look at each other in silence. It’s awkward, but a sort of good-awkward.
“It was nice to meet you!” She says, widening her eyes, and I laugh.
“Yeah, it was really good to meet you, too. Thank you for the tea.”
I leave her apartment smiling for the first time in such a long time. I want to call Paul, or Laura, or maybe my mother. Not to tell them, just to hear the sounds of their voices. I hear the train again, but this time, I don’t think of Paul. The ache in my chest has been soothed for the time being.
This is how it begins. Sweet tea, a kiss, the color blue. The bright hallway and the city lights. The heart-pounding ecstasy of a new love, of a true love, of a stranger in the night.