Inside Muse, Dylan’s head is thrown back laughing at a joke Hamid is telling. The noise level inside the bar is unbearably high. Nikki wonders how he can even hear the joke. The two guys have created a bubble surrounding them, excluding her. She’s tried to break through, to make comments, little jokes, but they don’t hear her. Literally. It’s that loud.

She sits watching them at the bar, talking, heads together, intimate. Laughing between sips of dirty martinis. A flash of a cufflink. Silky shirts absorbing the soft light. They’re standing, tall and lean. She glances at the mirror behind the bar. She sees herself small and elfin peeking out between the amber and ruby and tangerine bottles on the shelves.

He’s punishing me. That’s what he does when I’ve displeased him in some way. He ignores me and gifts his megawatt smile to whoever is near by — as long as it’s not me — and wraps them in the warm embrace of his charm. Like I don’t exist.”

She wonders what she did this time. Not being available to play all night? Becoming square and uncool by working as a teacher?

“Tee-cher. She’s becoming a tee-cher,” he once said mockingly over dinner with some friends.

The guys make a move to go. Dylan glances at her, making sure she knows. She slowly saunters out behind them, swinging her purse, taking her time.

“Wild things move fast,” he tosses back at her.

“Cool things move slow,” she retorts.

“Hurry up!” And then he quickens his pace to his aging Mercedes.

But she knows he won’t leave her. He’ll play it off but he will make sure she gets in the car.

And then he’ll continue punishing her.

Hamid follows them back to Dylan’s house in a black Ferrari.

In the car, she asks questions, questions artfully crafted so as not to appear needy or nagging, questions like, “So how do you and Hamid know each other?”

Dylan’s answers are terse and cryptic.

“We run in the same circles of people — people who are making money, making films, making money making films.”

So, I guess Hamid is one of the beautiful creative people. But she doesn’t say it, not willing to pick a fight yet.

So instead she says, “Oh, so what does Hamid do?”

“He makes money making films.” Dylans replies impatiently.

“Like producing, writing….?” Her questions taper off, hanging in the air.

He sighs and flicks on the radio and begins humming, whistling, drumming on the steering wheel out of time with the music.

Hamid is tall, rock star thin filling the space in Dylan’s living room with his voice, his energy, his wild gestures. He crosses behind Dylan’s beloved chrome bar to fetch the bottle of Absolut vodka he brought with him, and pours it deftly into a glass.

Nikki watches Hamid from the midcentury chair, noting how comfortable he seems, how at home in Dylan’s house. She wonders if he has a toothbrush here like she does.

Hamid is adding a little brine to the martini and stops talking long enough to slurp it.
He swallows and murmurs, “Damn, that’s good. So, Nikki,” he asks warmly, turning his gaze on her, “Are you an actress? You look like an actress. You have a very distinctive look.” His voice has a slight accent, with hints of a British education.

She glances at Dylan and registers that both guys are behind the bar, which unsettles her.

Dylan is busying himself wiping the counter, pretending to be above the conversation.

“Yeah, I’ve done a lot of theatre and some indie films, some t.v. Dylan and I did a few plays together.”

Hamid turns to Dylan and says, “Really? You two did some shows together? You never told me that. I think she might be right for a film I’m trying to finance.”

Ignoring the question, Dylan continues wiping the counter; then he lights another cigarette using an elegant silver lighter she doesn’t recognize.

Hamid turns back, fluid like liquid, not acknowledging the slight to Nikki. “Do you have an agent?”

She answers, “Yes, Apex Talent.”

He answers, “ I know them. Good mid-tiered agency. I’ll call Angie tomorrow. She’s a friend. There’s a part I definitely see you playing.”

Her heart thrills for a moment until Dylan, standing behind the bar like a judge on the bench, directs a question at her, “How are you going to take time off from your job as a school teacher?” He turns to Hamid and says as if she’s not there, “She’s a school teacher.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Hamid says expansively, coming around the bar and into the center of the room. “My father was a teacher. He was smart. Look at me.” He raises his arms to exhibit himself as evidence. “I’m doing okay.”

Then he smiles at her and winks. Despite herself, she smiles back.

“Hey,” Hamid begins to pat the pockets of his designer jacket. “You gotta smoke?” He turns to Dylan.

Dylans takes a cig out of an onyx box and puts it between his lips and lights it. Hamid moves towards him and Dylan places it in his mouth.

It’s the intimacy of the move — Dylan’s gentle pulling of the cigarette from his mouth and the exquisite tenderness of placing it in Hamid’s mouth that shakes her.

A small smile, a shared secret passes between them.

A punch to her gut.

There is a subtle shift in the energy.

Hamid suddenly turns and walking over to Nikki, pulls her to her feet. He pulls her close to him and murmurs in her ear. “Come here, pretty girl. Join the party.”

He smells like money. Delicate cologne with top notes of soft carpets and sleek dark cars, heart notes of secret corridors of power. The base notes whispering of elegant tailors with soft cultured voices.

His features are large — eyes intelligent, awake; his nose, imperious; mouth, rubied and sensual. She doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol but she’s attracted to him and she melts a bit against his chest which is strong and reassuring.

He kisses her. She allows it.

She’s stepping into unknown territory.

Maybe it’ll make him jealous. Followed by a second thought — It won’t.

She kisses back.

It’s been a while since she and Dylan have made love.

I need this. I need this. I need to be touched. I need to be desired.

Her ears are attuned to the sounds behind the bar. Sounds of glasses being slammed down. Bottles jostled.

“Ya’ll have to take this show elsewhere.”

Hamid breaks from her, smiling at her. “Join the fun, Dylan.”

She freezes.

“That’s not my idea of fun.”

Hamid looks at him and the expression of his face, from relaxed playfulness changes to apologetic concern. “I’m sorry, bro. I didn’t mean to offend.” Hamid steps away from her and turns to Dylan.

“I’m not feeling social and I need some space.” Dylan is fiddling with his stereo, putting on loud pounding music, drowning out all other sounds.

Hamid stands for a moment watching him, taking in his vibe. He’s got it. Okay. Hamid shrugs his shoulders and looks at Nikki.

He puts his full red lips next to Nikki’s ear and says, “I’m sorry, darling. I think I should go. But I will call Angie for you, if you like.”

She looks up at him, smiles and nods.

Hamid twirls around the room, surveying if he has everything, and then strides to Dylan.

“Okay, my friend. I understand. I’ll leave you alone now.”

He turns to go, but Dylan grabs his arms and says something urgent in his ear.

Hamid looks at him appraisingly, nods and quickly leaves.

Dylan moves around the bar into the middle of the room weaving like a punch drunk boxer.

He swivels his face towards her, sloppily, drunkenly like his head is loosely attached to his neck.

“You stil here?”

He grabs the bottle of Absolut vodka, tips it up and guzzles it down, his adam’s apple moving as he drinks. He sets the bottle down heavily and looks at her. His eyes red and hard.

“We need to clear the air,” he says.

He grabs the keys and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Bordners.”

He jostles past and stumbles out the door. She hesitates. What if she doesn’t follow?

But she does.

He tries to get in his car but he’s too drunk. She steers him to her Toyota, gets him inside and slides in on the driver’s seat.

“What do you want, Nikki? Let’s have it out.”

She’s feeling wild. Angry. She takes the bottle from him and takes a long pull.

It scalds all the way down and when it hits her stomach, it’s like a switch has been flipped and she’s in a whole different level of drunk, the top of the skyscraper of drunkenness.

She starts the car and begins driving. Talking and driving. Driving and talking. The world is spinning by. She doesn’t remember what she said. She doesn’t remember what he said. She thinks he was pulling on the bottle.

They reach the corner of Cherokee and Hollywood. Her head is spinning and she’s crying. She takes a right turn, misjudging and turning too sharply, runs up on the curb and hits a telephone pole.

The car slams to a stop.

“You stupid fucking bitch! What are you doing?”

She is sitting there shocked, jolted back into sobriety. Shaking, she throws the car into park and gets out to survey the damage. The passenger side is dented and the black paint badly scraped with white. Her heart aches for a moment for her damaged car. Dylan tries to open the banged up door, can’t, so scoots across to the driver’s side, and falls out onto the pavement. Still clutching the Absolut, he weaves his way across the street, dodging speeding and honking cars, and stumbles into the dive.

She slowly follows.

The dank odor of beer and disinfectant hits her nose. Broad backs hunch over the bar. The noise is deafening. Sound and fury, signifying nothing, she thinks. She sees a woman, ten or fifteen years older, sitting at the end of the bar. But a life of hard living and heart ache and cigarettes and alcohol and bennies and coke have etched their mark on her. Her face is pockmarked and lined. Hair dry and frizzy, roots showing. The dress cheap and wrinkled. Unloved. Not loved by anyone. Least of all herself. The woman is talking to a heavy set guy next to her who looks bored.

Nikki’s feeling the exhaustion and nausea of drink. It’s after midnight. She has to be at work by seven thirty. Her students have rehearsal tomorrow. They’ll be waiting for her. Juliana, Anton…Hana…and the others. She feels the strong pull of their need. And her need for them.

She turns and walks out the door.

“Hey!”

She hears Dylan’s voice behind her.

“Hey! I thought this is what you wanted?”

She turns and looks at him. He’s standing in the spotlight of a streetlamp. His favorite place. The spotlight. But the light shows the beginning of a gut straining against the expensive shirt.

The ethereal beauty of the fallen angel is bloated, the chiseled perfection of his cleft chin is growing jowly. And the inner rot is spreading to the outside to be seen by all who care to look.

She shakes her head and says, “This isn’t what I want. This isn’t what I want at all,” and turning, walks back to her battered car.

For the first time in a long time, she feels free.