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- 09/13/2017
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
So Weeps the Willow - 3. Sobriety - Day 2
-William James-
Sobriety - Day 2
I’m feeling a little better. Things don’t seem as dire right now. I can breathe again. I read my writing from earlier, and it seems a bit, well, dramatic, but now I’m better. I think. I was over-reacting. I hope.
Yesterday, I was exhausted when I went to work, still, the evening seemed to fly by. My friend Nats was working with me, and she kept me in stitches the whole night. Most of my tables were relatively low maintenance except one old queen who kept sending back his fish as ‘too dry and bland’. I thought maybe some spit would season it up and moisten it for him. (Just kidding! We only do that to people who don’t tip! Not really. :))
I was pretty tired by break time, and Nats really helped me find my second wind. Maybe I should tell you about her. She’s a hoot, but even more, she’s my partner in crime. I think she’s pretty special.
Natalie, Nats, started the same month as I did at Fisherman’s Wake. She’s rather tall, 5’10”, about my height, and thin as a rail. She’s a free spirit, an artist at heart, with jet black hair that features bright pink streaks. Nats has a few piercings, one nostril, her lip, her tongue, and several earrings. Her eyes are a bright, glistening gold, and her smile is rather sardonic. Like I said, she’s a spitfire.
Nats is a potter, you know, like with clay, making bowls and shit. She works part time out of a studio near the local university. Her work has been shown in several places and instead of it being that weird, modernistic, blobby stuff, her pots are rather delicate and intricate. Her taste isn’t fussy and prissy though, and there is real care and detail in her work. Trust me, it shows.
When we have time off, she’s not like me. Nats goes to her studio and drinks pots of espresso and works for hours. I know because I’ve visited her from time to time. I try to get her to loosen up.
Not that she isn’t a wild child. After work, she can tip back as often and steady as I can. The girl can drink. I know she likes a little weed and isn’t against a few party favors either. Nats isn’t the kind of person who has baggage. She’s real.
The other thing is, she doesn’t have hang-ups about sex like most people. If there’s a person she likes, male, female, or well, it doesn’t matter, she’ll latch onto them and consume them, heart and soul. Nats has sex as easily, and prolifically, as she drinks on our benders.
Here’s what intrigues me about her. Even if it’s a casual pickup, it means something to her. She’s not shallow like me. They aren’t just bodies to enjoy and get off to. She devours their stories.
I see it, because I don’t feel it, not like I think she does. For me, sex isn’t a big deal. Sex is a release, a way to feel good. For her, it is something more meaningful, I think. For Nats, it seems to affect her, which is bizarre to me. Nats gets something more out of it.
Let me explain this one event. It stands out, and kinda explain her ‘vibe’.
Nats picked up this really hot chick, a sorority type in a tight sweater and form-fitting jeans. This was the ultimate Barbie girl, fake blonde hair, lip gloss with glitter, eye makeup for days. This girl was a horny straight guy’s dream. Nats and I were at the bar, doing a couple of Southern Comfort shots – it was winter – and she noticed this girl. What was her name? It was Gabby or Gibby or…her name was Ginny. That’s right. I was surprised when Nats pointed her out to me. I thought that chick is frat bait. It was obvious she was an empty vessel.
But that’s not what Nats saw. Somehow that girl can see inside a person and read their story, or at least she could read the prologue or the jacket cover or inside sleeve. Nats knew Ginny had something interesting about her.
Nats wandered over and stood next to the blonde girl. She was gabbing with her clone friends, until suddenly she stopped. Ginny paused and lifted a finger as if telling her friend to stop for a moment. The other girls just laughed and kept drinking and pointing at some guys down the bar who seemed to enjoy the attention. The frat bait started talking with Nats, like, out of the blue. It was crazy.
Watching Nats talk with the stranger was a revelation. Watching from afar was a trip. The girl seemed to respond without effort to Nats questions and even asked a few of her own. After a few moments, Nats dragged the other girl out onto the dance floor. It was a happening night club, so no one could really tell who was dancing with whom, but it was obvious to me: Ginny only had eyes for Nats. The more attention my friend returned, the more blondie lit up and seemed to glow beneath the flashing, colored lights of the pit.
After a short time, I was cruising a tasty piece of dirty blond of my own, a guy I’d seen before with grease coloring his fingernails and oil lining the swirls of his fingerprints. It was really hot, bagging a blue collared boy like that. He looked hungry and his eyes would seek out mine and then dart away when I smiled. I sent him a Miller Lite, and he lifted it to salute me when I felt a hand touch my arm.
I nodded and turned around to see Nats and blondie standing there. Nats introduced Ginny to me, and Ginny had it bad. She was grinning like a kid at her seventh birthday party finding out her present was a new bike, with rainbow streamers and a bell. Frat bait was enamored with my friend.
Nats was looking happy, truly happy, like when she finished one of her pieces of pottery. That was when she was truly serene, when she was done with a piece of art. It was only for a day, but her face seemed to ease into radiant contentment. The next day, her somewhat sour look, laced with cynicism would return. But, her look of accomplishment, that’s what it was, and it was so attractive.
When Nats looked pleased with herself, there was a sexuality about her at that moment, so poignant, even I felt it. I’m as gay as a goose who escaped a Christmas beheading, but I could feel her magnetism. Nats was exuding it then, and Ginny was clutching her arm, beaming, and bouncing to the beat. Whatever it was Nats had seen in her, it was something special because nothing ordinary made Nats this happy.
Nats whispered a good bye to me. My mechanic friend had disappeared for the evening, no doubt hightailing away in a rusty, beat-up Dakota pickup with dented bumpers and a rusty trailer hitch. I found it didn’t really matter much. I had a few more, well, quite a few more, and finally headed home after last call. I fell asleep (passed out) thinking how Nats could really reel them in.
There’s more to Nats story about Ginny, but I need to get to the gym. No rest for the wicked and I’m hoping if I wear myself out, sleep will be a little sounder tonight. Perhaps it will quell the harsh dreams.
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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