Pg. 6
Stepping back from these sorts of outlandish, romantically-ridiculous statements, one can see the huge cream-pie-in-the-face looming just in front of our girl. Why she says things of this nature, why she does what she does is and forever will be the not-so-secret secret of alcohol. She turns into a walking advertisement - she can have anyone, do anything, destroy anyone, create anything - just like the ads we see on the subway, just like the commercials where women are enchanting and powerful with the next beer firmly in their grasp.
But when one person does, in fact, state that they are interested in another person, perhaps it is best to realize that the next events transpired because of this. She does not keep this in her head for one bull-headed minute as dancing, kissing, smoking, drinking, etc. continue.
"Wait - what about P?"
"P was a cover."
"P was a cover? He was a trick."
"Yeah. To see if you liked me."
"That's pretty devious."
Streaks of gold and blurry inconsistencies run rampant at this point - she has no idea what she's saying anymore, she knows that he has given her a Jameson and soda, which she drinks, and then she goes off to the bathroom, she comes back. She goes again, a little later, she comes back. She takes her shoes off to show her real height, he tells her not to.
"Let's get out of here."
The three, NE, roommate, and she stumble through the lost corridors, making their way out of the gilded candlelit bar. NE is suddenly no longer there - perhaps NE hopped in one cab while the roommate and she take another, although they are all going to the same destination.
Fading in, fading out, the cab ride is muddled. The next remembered swatch of the night is standing in line to buy beer, triscuits, and ice cream, meeting up with NE. They all proceed back to the posh space in the West Village, where NE has to pack and leave in approximately one hour for LA.
They eat the goods, flirtatious humor ensues: "Damn, you really like those triscuits, don't you. You loooove them." It's idiotic. Does this work on people? They are all so smashingly drunk, so incredibly gone. She sits in the space between his torso and his arm on the couch until they make their way off to his room.
They lie on his bed, and she actually has the inebriated gall to say: "I'm not going to have sex with you."
He. flies. off. the. handle.
2005-05-27 | 3:32 p.m.
