In 45 days I will be 30
I am writing a trashy novella in honour of my upcoming show in the Toronto Fringe Festival: The Queen’s Eulogy (it’s a play performed in a pile of trash). Enjoy.
Third Part: The Noble Man Kisses Me Quickly
Sometimes I drink just because time isn’t moving fast enough and sometimes I drink because I recently had sex with someone I can’t stand and I just need to forget my entire body for a little bit of time. Those might be the same things.
I wish I never learned about alcohol. But society brought me here.
Can’t I blame society for everything? I just want to blame society for everything and I’m doing it, I’m doing it just by fucking a guy in an alley. I’m doing it just by drinking with him in a bar afterwards, the exact same bar we came from, our neighbourhood, our own little spot. I don’t care about anything he is saying so I just look in all directions until he appears to have made a point and then I look at him and I smile.
He looks like my ex-dick, he sounds like him and I wonder so badly if I will just be having sex with the same person over and over again.
“What, what do you do?” He asks me a question about myself and he smiles at me for way too long.
I realize he has asked me a question. I have had exactly one sip of one drink.
“What?”
“What do you do?”
“I internet.”
I internet because the internet needs me. I don’t even know how else to explain that I am the internet. I run the internet. This morning the internet told me to leave it alone. It hates my oppressive brilliance. I run the internet. I internet.
“Like IT?” He has had a lot to drink.
“Like writing stuff for the internet.”
“Oh, you’re a writer.”
“Yeah”
I don’t want to look at Jake anymore. He looks to much like people.
I stare at the candle. They put candles on the table so we can see each other’s faces but I don’t see any point to our faces right now. I blow out the candle.
I don’t explain anything. He maybe asks me why i did it. I don’t listen. I get up and go to the bar. I need a break. I need a break and I quit smoking long enough ago to not need smoking but recently enough to still need the Getting Up and Going part.
I reach the bar.
A blonde-haired man with a beard is sitting reading a book.
I look back at my table. Jake, blonde man with beard from earlier, is gone.
I am standing beside the new blonde boy. The new Jake. The new Ex-dick.
“Hey bud.”
He doesn’t say anything. I flick his shoulder because I don’t actually want to touch him because I can’t tell if I know him or not, “HEY! Bud.”
He jumps. He looks at me.
“Hey, bud.”
He looks at me and seriously has no idea who I am or what I am doing flicking his shoulder. Hey bud is not the right thing to say to someone you don’t know.
“Sorry.” I apologize out of confusion.
“Did you need something?”
“Clearly, I thought I knew who you were and I don’t and it’s humiliating and I’m sorry.”
“Did your date not show?”
Whatever version of ex-dick this is, I don’t really like him. All men who look like this are smug, the kind of smug that results in me trying to prove myself. I know they feel entitled and I try to prove that I am the prize of their entitlement. Like I’m dessert. Or like I’m champagne. I want to be the privilege. Their privilege. I just want to feel fucking special. Smug means they are particular. If I am that particular thing, I’m fucking the special. I am the best. I am better than other women. Which, I don’t know why that’s valuable, but it is: Valuable.
I am forming relationships with strangers because my phone is broken and I am super ok with it but it seems to take too long, it takes too long to know what real person, wants, needs and feels.
I want this guy to tell me what he needs. And I want to give it to him. Even if it goes against all my rules. And: I hate him.
Valuable as I am, I become a complete skank.
“You have really nice eyes.” This fucker wants to feel special too.
His eyes are ok. Grey eyes but all boys have grey eyes. All boys look just like this boy.
He looks at me like my lipstick is everywhere. Which is legitimately one of the worst things that can happen to me.
“Is there something shitty on my face?”
“No, you’re really beautiful.”
I take it in. The complement is worth everything and fuck feminism and fuck depth of character.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, really, really. You’re really a pretty girl.”
“Thank you. You’re very sexy.”
“The word is Handsome.”
“That too.”
I want to touch his hair and so I say, “I want to touch your hair.”
“Touch it.”
I have my hand in his hair, my fingers pressing through the strands, the little tufts of blonde, tickling pieces of me. My skin giggles.
“Um. I really like this feeling.”
“ok.”
The shine of everything beams out of his grey eyes, his peaceful hint of a smile, he is obviously quiet and intelligent and maybe even noble,
“Are you noble?” I ask him.
He leans onto his hand, elbow on the bar, he really thinks about it, “”What do you mean?”
“Do you think you’re noble?”
“Yes.”
I laugh at him, “Why do you think that?”
“I just am, I just would say that I am. I am noble. Are you noble?”
“I fucking hope not.”
He really smiles now. He leans in very quickly and kisses me. He leans back, wipes his mouth and spits out the word “Sorry”
I look at his whole face, up and down, his forehead is very white but the rest of him is tomato. He gets up, pleading, “Excuse me,” and heads somewhere far away.
I look at the old man bartender. I look at the bar.
“I would like a drink please. I would like a beer. Whatever beer. Just give me this beer that he is drinking. I’ll have his beer. Another one. The same kind. Please.”
The bartender asks me for ID.
“I was just drinking over there at that fucking table.”
He doesn’t know what I am talking about and I don’t want him to think too hard about it
so I show him my license and wait for the beer. And wait for the boy. And wait for the beer.
Come back tomorrow for a new part!
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There is also still time to conribute to my Fringe Show. If you like my writing and you can’t make it to the show, our fundraiser is a great way to show your support. Thanks so much!
Peace peace calm peace,
-R
Rachel Ganz 