Her Pen At Midnight

Hot coffee burns my tongue as I stare at the large bouquet. Its overpriced, yet simple, elegance is out of place amongst the backdrop of the home’s normalcy and secondhand shit.

I know you’ll hate this. That’s why I’m sending it. Be there soon with tequila, the small card, printed in generic font, jettying from the flowers on a long plastic stick, read.

Most of the flowers are thriving in the aspirin/bleach/water mixture Google instructed me to place their diagonally cut stems in. Others, not so much. The blue, orange, pink, and yellow hues- days ago vibrant, are now tinged with varying shades of brown. A few petals are already rotted, lifelessly lying on the surface where their vase rests.

But such is life, right?

I’m sitting on a gray, oversized cushion as the taste of the coffee’s sweetened cream loses to the bitterness filling my mouth, and the remnants of a floral scent seep through an open window. My phone pings. The sound is jolting in the otherwise silent house. It startles me, the hot coffee spilling onto my black leggings and the dingy couch cushion. I flick a button on the side of the phone to silence it.

You good, Cass? The text from Ethan reads.

It’s a question he asks me a lot. On the monotonous days when life just quietly passes by. A reality TV show streaming on a screen for background noise, its semi-scripted arguments, for once, the day’s only drama. After a bad date, or day at work. Or, while we smoke cigarettes on whoever’s couch we’re crashed on. Dateline, or some shitty show on low in the background. My head resting on his shoulder, as we shield our still dilated pupils from the glow of the screen. His warm hand on top of my always cold fingers, as the evening’s high dissipates and our minds slowly return to planet Earth.

We met at a college after-party. A home win, against the school’s biggest football rival, changed his life. The bar was crowded and getting a drink was seemingly impossible as the night went on.

Hey, what do you want? A random guy asked me, pointing to the bar. He was hot, in a Kurt Cobain, Joe Alwyn in Conversations with Friends, way. He looked complicated, flirty, and fuckable.

Tequila, I skeptically replied. There wasn’t a bartender around. At least, none that were paying attention to the dead man’s land we found ourselves standing in. 

Tequila and what? The guy leaned in closer, but not threateningly, near my ear. The bar was loud.

And ice? I asked back quizzically, as if unsure of the right answer on a test.

Ethan, by the way, he said smiling. I returned the smile, looking into his clear green eyes with my own, dark brown.

You’ll get my name, Ethan, when I get my drink, I said, winking as I removed a cigarette from the pack I’d just taken from his pocket. He watched as I pulled out a lighter from my pocket, inhaling as our eyes stayed locked.

So, I said, handing back his pack of cigarettes, and exhaling a stream of smoke into the air above our heads. Getting me that drink or what?

Jesus Christ, he said laughing. You’re gonna be trouble. Ethan looked at me a moment longer before turning his attention to the bar.

Yo, Franklin, he loudly beckoned in a way that could only be taken one of two ways. Either one- a fight’s going to happen. Or two- Ethan and Franklin are friends.

Yo, E, what up man? Playing tonight?

Later, I heard Ethan reply.

You good…?

Cass, I said. My name is Cass.

You good Cass? Ethan asked, a shit-eating grin crossing his face as he handed me a tequila on the rocks.

I’m good Ethan, I simply replied, smiling into the eyes of my new friend.

And now, you good Cass? A question Ethan asks, as the distinct smell of low tide- that briny mix of salt and seaweed, hangs nostalgically in the air.

Drastically larger, is how I’d describe the size of the stages Ethan, and the band, have played on since that night. A music exec, in town to see the game and his cheerleading daughter, tagged along to the same afterparty as she downed shots and grinded against the hard crotch of various warm bodies. The music exec dad, oblivious of his daughter’s behavior, was busy flirting with college girls, and underage charges when Ethan’s voice summoned the crowd’s attention to the small stage where he, and the band, stood.

Life has never been the same.

The predawn hour blankets the ocean lapping against the exposed rocky coast. I light a joint and deeply inhale, turning my head slightly toward the window, allowing the cool breeze to carry away the exhaled smoke. 

I’m going to roll a joint, I’d said last night, motioning toward the restrooms of the town’s local dive bar. Its old AC wasn’t keeping up with the over-capacity, tourist-laden crowd filling the rundown building. Sweat beaded on the small of my back as I made my way through the sea of unfamiliar faces. In the off-season, when the dust settles and the seasonal profits are either celebrated with a round of shots for all or drowned in another stiff drink- sipped alone at the darkened end of the long bar, the town’s meager population is all who fill these nicotine stained walls. 

Clay, both bartender and owner, was idling where I stood. He was ignoring a pushy guy with a popped-up collar, and over-gelled brown hair, making me laugh with one of his stories. We went to high school together, him one of the few who stayed after graduation when the rest of us fled. We knew of each other then, not enemies or friends. The town is small, and the number of high school cliques was, and I am sure still is, smaller. We spent years forever together, but not. He was nice-looking then, and now, somehow avoiding the homeliness that afflicts most who never leave here.

In another life, Clay and I would probably be unhappily married with kids. He, complaining we don’t fuck like we used to. Me, bitching about the fucking bar. A place I love now, but would inevitably turn into the other woman in our stagnant marriage. We’d be too poor to divorce. Too tired to fix it. Too resentful to care if the other smelled the adulterous quickie had before cozying up as a family on the family room couch, watching the same fucking movie as we always do on Disney+.

Incoming, Clay motioned with his head.

The twenty-something seemed cocky the moment our eyes met, each of us scanning the crowd for the same reason. Smoke was exiting my slightly parted lips when he approached me, two friends following as wingmen. My elbow was propped on the old bar I leaned against, a sweating glass of tequila casually hanging between my thumb and three fingers, as I looked at them, one by one.

Hey buddy, the twenty-something Prince Charming said to Clay, less cocky than I, and I think Clay thought he’d be.

Fuck off, dude, the over-gelled patron mocked. I have been waiting forever while this one flirts with her. Can we get a drink, already?

You might as well fuck off, Clay said to the over-gelled dude. Find another bartender. Or leave. I’m not serving you.

Clay turned to Prince Charming.

What do you guys want?

Ladies first, Prince Charming replied, his nickname earned as he slid up next to me, smiling a rehearsed smile, and winking a flirtatious eye. 

I’d be careful of this one, Prince Charming, Clay said, pointing at me and laughing, as he placed four shots in front of us, also pouring one for himself.

Cheers, I said winking at Clay, before turning my full attention to my new friend.

A few drinks later, Prince Charming watched as my fingers slowly moved toward the front pocket of his jeans. His immature junk pulsed in response to my slight, but intentional, graze as those same fingers found the folded plastic bag. His lust, and mediocre boner, watching as I walked away.

I’m good, Ethan, I text back now, dropping the phone onto the couch cushion next to me.

My thighs ache from the sex I did have, after walking off with Prince Charming’s pot.

Harder, I begged Craig, the thirty-something guy, wishing I’d just kept walking home. Instead, I had wandered in the direction of home, noticing the seating outside the wine bar was only three-quarters full. Weird, I thought, for a seasonal Saturday night. As I got closer, I saw most were seated inside the darkly lit space, readying for the melodic tunes about to be sung by a sexy-voiced woman. I also noticed the nice-looking guy sitting alone at an outside corner table with a bottle of moderately priced white wine, and a pack of American Spirits. I was buzzed from the free drinks consumed with Prince Charming as I walked over, an unlit cigarette already between my lips.

Got a light?

Where are you going? Craig, the thirty-something asked when I emerged from his hotel bathroom, grabbing my scattered clothes from the floor. He was still naked and erect, laying in the same position I’d left him minutes earlier, gray boxer briefs hanging over his dick like a washcloth on a doorknob. A scene from Dirty Dancing popped into my mind.

You remind me of a Robbie, I say, noticing the thirty-something’s breathing was still recuperating. Too much so, I thought, for someone who- aside from the inability to properly fuck me, seemed in decent shape.

Who? Craig asked, questioningly. Again, I momentarily traveled back to the Catskills. 

I’m going home, I said, pulling on my underwear and pants.

You live here? He asked me.

Just moved back, I reply.

Stay, he said. I’ll be good to go again in a little bit.

I chuckled.

What’s so funny?

Nothing, I smiled, focusing all of my energy on not rolling my eyes. 

At least give me your number then, he said, removing his boxers from his now limp dick and putting them on. Next time I’ll even buy you dinner, he said, smiling at his attempted humor.

This time, my chuckle was muffled as I pulled the sweater over my head. Why, do you live here? I asked him, grabbing my shoes, already knowing the answer.

The city, he replied. But I come up this way a lot.

Is your wife cool with you fucking out-of-town women? I asked him as my right foot slid into the right boot.

I’m not married, he said, sounding annoyed with the question.

You fuck like you are, I unemotionally replied, rising from the end of the adjacent bed. The door of the hotel room closed as his string of belittlements continued in my direction. I’ve heard it all before, I said to no one, but myself, as I walked down the cold, hotel hallway toward the elevator.

I paused in the lobby to roll a joint with Prince Charming’s weed. The hotel’s AC was running, polluting the otherwise quiet interior. A no vacancy sign’s neon light lit up the window by the generic entrance. Condensation covered the glass of the automatic doors. Hundreds of brochures advertising local, touristy attractions lined the surface of the table. The glossy colors beckoning the attention, and money, of any, and all, out-of-town faces.

Try me, each destination flirts, in its own marketed way. Some offering nonstop, good times. Others, deep discounts for groups of five or more. I was packing the freshly rolled joint when I noticed the last brochure stuffed onto the long table. I walked over to it, my fingers resting on the glossy paper as the memories attempted to resurface.

Hey Cass, a familiar voice called, jolting me from the past. The overnight security guard was already walking away as I turned toward his greeting.

Night’s almost over, I too cheerfully replied to him. His retirement-age body was limping toward the indoor swimming pool, as he lifted his left arm in acknowledgment, and I headed home.

Rain now falls from the black clouds covering the vastness of yesterday’s blue skies. The droplets are skewing my clarity as they flow in random patterns down the window’s old panes glass. It’s the witching hour. The time between dream and reality, when the morning’s first high mixes with the nostalgia of what will never be. I miss seduction. The fantasized version of reality we choose to remember when the fog of self-loathing rolls in, blinding us to how it really was.

Instead, I think of Prince Charming. I’d be lying if I said his desire didn’t excite me. A wet spot grows on my cotton panties with each new Prince. Their names, varying but our goals forever the same. Some I fuck when the urge arises, the door quickly closing after I’ve come. Mostly, as I’m sure was the case last night, I become an afterthought as another shot mixes with cheap beer, fueling the Prince’s biological (drunken?) need for another.

Lucky for him, the summer months fill these beaches with Stepford women, each yearning for their version of a summer romance. Their pale skin morphing from red to tanned as the days pass, and dreams of a happily ever after are found on a warm summer night, in a small beachside town. Felt as the summer sun begins its descent and the warm air relinquishes to a cool breeze. As the day turns to night, and foreign faces fill the local bar, where guys chug draft beer and women sip rum punch through lipstick-stained straws. Liquid courage courses through all, as sunburns are forgotten and cigarettes are lit by guys wearing expensive jeans, and amazing-smelling cologne.

Dancing under the bar’s dim lights will lead to a first kiss, as Sweet Caroline is sung by a weekend crooner. His large, recycled pickle jar sitting atop the bar’s old piano. It starts the night empty, filling with drunken money as the hours pass and the space between bodies lessens. A darkened stairwell becomes second base after another cigarette is smoked by immature lungs. Fantastical dreams mask the mediocrity which will follow, as last-call shots are swallowed and flirtatious hands slip lower. Excitement heightens- fueled by estrogen and rum, as drunken sex is had in the guy’s room with a view.

I’m in love, the Stepford woman will text her friends, her messy hair cradling Prince Charming’s pillow. He’ll be passed out beside her in a pair of Calvin Klein boxers. Her words are both a proclamation and proof of life, unaware Prince Charming is a stereotypical college kid who, like the others just like him, arrived a week earlier with his loaded parents, and a duffel bag full of medical-grade marijuana. The parents- clones of each other, renting out the largest houses with the grandest views. The fathers commute between the beach and reality while their wives stay drunk, and unbothered, at the shore. A rented coastline of generational happily ever after’s reliant upon thin lubricated layers, and sometimes just a prayer, as their heirs sell their stashes and spread their seeds.

Prince Charming’s liquor-fueled haze will dissipate soon, as his still sleepy eyes glimpse the body lying next to him. He’ll think of me while enjoying a morning fuck with her. Biological urge superseding vaginal preference, as his pounding head, and missing baggie of pot become reminders of what could have been.

He will give the Stepford woman his real number, adding both a new city- and willing pussy, to his contacts as he takes hers. The smile on his face will inevitably be misconstrued, her group text blowing up with plans for their fairytale wedding as she walks to the small manufactured home she rented with five other friends.

That chick took off with my weed. The other girl is the one I fucked, Prince Charming will say to his friends while throwing a football around on the beach.

Twice, he’ll laugh.

Clarity will strike then, as the afternoon sun shines down on the twenty-something Prince Charming. He’ll catch the can of barely chilled beer a friend tosses him, as his mediocre brain processes the night’s actions and morning’s reality.

It’s Sunday, and someone forgot to pray.