SATURDAY MORNING/SATURDAY NIGHT
She drifts up from sleep. The first thought is Dylan. Then memory returns. And the heaviness. She drifts back down. Dylan. She opens her eyes. The room is a glare of brilliant yellow. She shuts her eyes hard against its light. Her head is pounding. She struggles up and staggers to the bathroom. She washes her face in cold water, leaning on the cheap sink for support, hoping it doesn’t break. Her legs are trembling.
She checks her face in the mirror to make sure she still exists.
It’s too quiet. She turns on the t.v. to make it seem like people are in the room “…in the Middle East another bomb explosion…” but turns the sound off, playing music instead on her laptop.
A cigarette or two or three. Aspirin. Cold coffee from yesterday microwaved and a dash of vodka, the hair of the dog or the whole dog, more like it. She rinses the day-old breakfast from yesterday’s skillet and scrambles some eggs along with bacon, lots and lots of bacon. She eats in bed and finishes it off with another cigarette or two and stubs them out in the grease and the eggs, and then sleeps a little more, lulled to sleep by Winehouse’s singing from the laptop.
She wakes up feverish with a stiff neck. The walls are thin. The next door neighbors are talking. And the air is hot. She drags herself to the kitchen and sticks her head under the faucet, turns it on, lapping up water like a cat. She falls back into bed.
By two she’s feeling half-way human. She begins to stir, knocking the plate onto the floor. Goddamn mother-fucker. She gets up and cleans the mess of bacon bits and scrambled eggs and cigarette butts and dumps them in the sink, along with the tower of last week’s dishes.
She lights another cigarette and pours herself a careful shot of vodka on the rocks — it’s a hot day. She breathes in the rich meaty smell of her flesh in the afternoon heat, savoring it. It’s hers. She remembers Dylan’s smell, his hot breath. His hands. His shoulders.
She’s holding the vodka, the cigarette in the other hand, gesturing. She’s carrying on a conversation with Dylan, where she’s funny. Bright. Upbeat. Not sad and drunk and stupid.
Telling him little stories. Little jokes. She’s witty and clever, now. He’s laughing. Like he used to. A long time ago. Before it went bad. No, don’t go there.
She finishes the story and tilts her head back and downs the last bit of vodka. She stands, swaying slightly, staring into space, into his eyes, imagining him smiling. Like he used to.
The day has taken on a rhythm of loss and hope, of revving and braking.The shadows grow longer. Her eyes fall on the two brief cases stuffed with papers and scripts and books. Restlessness ripples across her.
She sees her students looking at her.
“I can’t. Not tonight. I’ll do it Sunday. I promise,” she says alone.
She takes a shower, imagining Dylan making love to her as she moves her hands across her body soaping it up and smoothing the warm sudsy water across her breast, her crotch, between her legs. She aches. She watches the water swirl around and around the drain. To calm my mind. To calm my mind. To calm my mind.
She stands before the full length mirror in her small dressing area, just off the bathroom. A small wall shields the area from the front door.
She checks the face to see if she still exists.
She appraises what she sees. Her hair dark — layered and bouncy, stopping at her square strong shoulders. A dancer’s body. Still firm and taut. But a bagginess is creeping along her belly, her upper thighs. Breast medium and full. But a slight tired sag is apparent. Her face still cute and youngish. But a little puffy, swollen and red. Top lip thinning a bit from too many cigarettes. And the skin is making its slow descent towards old age sag. Her eyes dark and haunted and fearful.
“I’m thirty-three. I’m still young,” she says aloud.
She dresses. Short skirt to show off her legs, still firm and muscular from years of dance. Her tits still good enough to go braless. Stilettos for height. Lipstick. She plucks her delicately arched eyebrows. Soft taupe and fawn for eyeshadow.
Dark brown for mascara. She leans in close to the mirror. Her mouth slightly open, leaving a small cloud on the glass. Her teeth small, neat, and white against the red of her lips. Small regular breaths as she carefully combs each lash with the mascara wand. She steps back and surveys her work. It’s okay, she shrugs. Not everything can be a masterpiece.
She climbs into her Toyota, turns on the radio — lights another cigarette, drives aimlessly. She doesn’t want company tonight so she calls no one — and who is there to call now anyway? She wants no distractions.
She drives aimlessly past their old haunts. The bars. The restaurants. She scans the parking lots and streets for his red vintage Mercedes.
Vintage is another word for old.
She casts a look in the rearview mirror. A memory of a casting agent calling her long in the tooth. You’re aging, honey, and that’s a good thing for a character actor. In another ten years you’ll get cast in comedic roles. The agent smirked at her as she said this.
She politely thanked the agent and as she was walking out the door, the agent said, “Here, honey, here’s your headshot back.”
It’s getting dark now.
She drives into the Hollywood foothills where the cheaper homes are, before they get nice, past his house, a 1920’s bungalow that needs work. The lights are on. His car is gone.
She drives to Muse, their old bar and walks in. A few men turn expectantly towards the door. Some of them turn back to their drinks.
The hostess, a tall young woman, with thick sheafs of gleaming blond hair, stands at the podium. Her waist is cinched with a gold belt that matches her hair.
She asks if there’s a wait for a table. The hostess gives a professional smile and says, “No wait. There are a few tables in the back.”
She goes further into the bar. The roar increases of men, women talking, talking. She finds a seat at the closest table. A waitress cruises by, takes her drink order — scotch on the rocks. Glenfiddich.
“Good choice!” the waitress gives her props and moves on to the next table.
She lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. She looks around the bar. For him.
Mirrors echo images of smooth hair, gleaming skin, glinting jewelry.
The latest, hippest, coolest songs bounce against the hard edges of tables, glass, marble, people.
She stares at the mirror reflecting the front door. Every time it opens she looks up.
The drink arrives. Mercifully. Golden amber — like liquid gold.
She takes the first sip and it hits her like a drug.
Three drinks later and she’s in the sweet spot. Everything is comfortably numb but the edges are kind of curling now.
She’s at the bar laughing and talking with three guys. One of them seems to really like her. He’s laughing and the light catches on his brilliant white teeth. He’s cute. But it’s hard to tell because it’s dark and smoky in here.
She’s asked him his name and he’s told her but she doesn’t remember or she didn’t quite catch it.
The other two guys are no longer listening to her. They’re having a side bar conversation. They turn to the guy who’s talking to her.
There is some mumbling.
“We gotta split.”
More mumbling.
“Yeah, see you on Monday!” The two guys drift away. One remembers to call out — “Nice meeting you, Vicky” — as he’s leaving.
Then there’s the one guy left. He’s standing before her, smiling and laughing. She’s in a warm bubble with him and she’s feeling happy and safe and so she says, “You are so cute!”
He laughs some more.
“You are. You are so damn adorable.”
And he leans over and kisses her and she sinks into his kiss, so warm and so safe….
And then the bartender calls out, “Last call, y’all!”
“Another drink?” he says as if on dare.
“Hell yeah!”
“One more gin for me and a — what was it, sweetheart?”
“A scotch on the rocks — Glenfiddich!”
“And a scotch on the rocks — “
“Glenfiddich!” She yells.
The guy starts kissing her again. What was his name again?
Does it matter?
The drinks arrive, interrupting their kissing. He wants to keep kissing. She wants to keep drinking.
It’s getting confusing. Memory of moving towards the door, accidentally hitting a chair on her way out.
Talking, talking, talking.
Something to do with keys. Car keys. “I’ll drive you…”
They’re on the sidewalk, walking past a brightly lit store. The lights shining down on her. She imagines she’s onstage.
He takes her by the shoulders and tries to steer her. They’re laughing. People walk by. She’s in a wide-angle movie, moving past them. The lights are beginning to hurt her eyes.
Some more people, exuding an aroma of wealth and poise, walk past.
“Somebody’s had too much to drink.”
“Don’t be jealous! I’m having a good time! she yells at them.
Somebody laughs.
The good looking guy says, “I’ll drive us over there -“
She jerks her shoulder away from him and climbs into her car.
“Just follow me. I don’t live far,” she says as she rolls down the window.
Driving is a blur.
Staggering up the stone stairs to the courtyard, a dark figure emerges from the shadows. I hope it’s the guy. He walks up to her, puts his arms around her. She leans in for a kiss. This all feels so good she starts laughing. Peals of laughter. He’s laughing too.
Shut up! A voice from the front unit. They crack up, shushing each other.
They stagger through the gate to her apartment — third on the right with the little wind chimes hanging from the arch.
She fumbles with the locks. Finally, she finds the right key. He reaches a hand out to help “- No! Let me do it. It’s my house!” Finally, she gets the key in the lock. She turns to him. He leans against her. They fall crashing in to the apartment. A square of light frames them on the floor. They’re pawing at each other, at their clothes. He kicks the door closed with his foot. The square of light disappears, plunging the apartment into darkness. They fall onto the bed and she closes her eyes as she’s enveloped, safe and warm, rocking in rhythm with him.