We were sitting in a cramped booth surrounded by people posturing for invisible cameras at their sides.
It smelled like cigarettes and you couldn’t even smoke inside of the place. I was annoyed.
“So you heard he’s going to be on the cover next month? God, I can’t believe it. He fucks me once and never calls again. Not like I care; I do have Steven. But really; once? I’ve never had a guy only fuck me once.”
“Yeah, and now you’re going to have to see his face at every newsstand next month,” I say, and we laugh because really, who ever walks by a newsstand, unless they’re in the valley of death (Laurel Canyon) or Cahuenga, the land of washed up fake rock stars.
I’ve never shot heroin before but now is the kind of time that makes me want to. I am so fucking bored I feel like hurting myself.
Some asshole comes over and dominates my friends attention, so I get up and wander around the hotbox that is the newest “it” place. Looks just like everywhere else, atleast to me. Satin covered chaises, pin-cushion couches, striped paint. Everything in shades of black and gold and purple, emulating royalty…or a circus. I think about my parents, safe and snug at home, probably thinking about how unfair it is that Republicans don’t run the Senate.
I walk outside (therefore ruining my chances of getting back in unless I prostrate myself to the doorman) and take a breath of air. It smells acrid and…heavy. I text my friend to come outside or she can walk home. She comes out throwing daggers with her eyes. “That guy was hot, bitch. Thanks.”
“Guys only want what they can’t have. You should thank me.”
Our heels click-clack on the dirty sidewalk as we walk back to my car, covered in Los Angeles soot and smelling like cheap drugstore perfume spray.
My car takes a couple of tries to start, but start she does, and I carefully pull out into the never ending traffic, settling in for the short drive to my friend’s apartment where we’ll drink cheap wine and talk about shit like designers and who’s promoting what club and why we’re too good to go there, until we do. I stare at the sky at a red light and feel surprisingly open.
“Don’t you ever wonder if there’s…more?”
“More? More what? More dick? More coke? More money? Because yeah, I want more of all of those things.” My friend cackles and I wince.
“No…more out here then what we assume. Maybe we should, I don’t know…go to the beach or something tomorrow? Or, like, a museum. Or something.”
“Oh, like cultural shit.”
I hesitate. “Well; yeah.”
“Okay. But we can’t tomorrow-we have to go to Erik’s show and you know that’ll be an all night thing.”
I had forgotten about that. “Oh yeah.” I turn onto my friend’s street. “I forgot about that.”
“I know, right?! Things are so easy to forget.” She grins at me and hops out of my car.
Things are so easily forgotten.
We make it so.