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already_lostThe music playing softly from the jukebox reminded her of Twin Peaks. Of Audrey Horne and her affected, kitchy strangeness. It's just so dreamy. Audrey, who'd resented her for attracting her father's attention, which she'd never wanted in the first place.
Or had she?
There was a middle-aged man at the bar. Grey hair. Dress shirt. His suit jacket lay draped over the stool at his side. She sat picking at a basket of fries and sipping on a coke with lime, and the whole time, he watched her. He watched with dark, beady eyes, like he wanted to drink her up. Laura's skin crawled, her stomach roiling, but as she shifted her weight, uncrossing and recrossing her legs, she realized that, under his covetous stare, she'd gotten wet.
"Are you going to stare all night, or are you going to buy me a drink?" She asked, and within minutes she had a whiskey sour sweating in front of her, that she wouldn't touch, and he had his hand up her skirt, his fat pinkie grazing the cotton of her panties.
It was disgusting. She was disgusting. As he leaned in to smell her neck, she imagined that he might smell rot. She imagined that she might open her mouth wide, wider, and swallow him up in the darkness inside of her.
There were lips on her neck, cold and too wet. She sighed, bored already, and hoped that one of the waiters would kick them out, soon, giving her an excuse to escape. But no one was watching, or maybe not one cared, in this dimly lit pub, near closing. And as this stranger touched her like he owned her, her eyes drifted towards the door, and she remembered as their eyes met that she'd called Chuck to meet her there.
Or maybe she hadn't forgotten at all.
Or had she?
There was a middle-aged man at the bar. Grey hair. Dress shirt. His suit jacket lay draped over the stool at his side. She sat picking at a basket of fries and sipping on a coke with lime, and the whole time, he watched her. He watched with dark, beady eyes, like he wanted to drink her up. Laura's skin crawled, her stomach roiling, but as she shifted her weight, uncrossing and recrossing her legs, she realized that, under his covetous stare, she'd gotten wet.
"Are you going to stare all night, or are you going to buy me a drink?" She asked, and within minutes she had a whiskey sour sweating in front of her, that she wouldn't touch, and he had his hand up her skirt, his fat pinkie grazing the cotton of her panties.
It was disgusting. She was disgusting. As he leaned in to smell her neck, she imagined that he might smell rot. She imagined that she might open her mouth wide, wider, and swallow him up in the darkness inside of her.
There were lips on her neck, cold and too wet. She sighed, bored already, and hoped that one of the waiters would kick them out, soon, giving her an excuse to escape. But no one was watching, or maybe not one cared, in this dimly lit pub, near closing. And as this stranger touched her like he owned her, her eyes drifted towards the door, and she remembered as their eyes met that she'd called Chuck to meet her there.
Or maybe she hadn't forgotten at all.
