Always Happy Hour: Stories(61)

“Mascara.”

“I don’t like mascara. I can feel my eyelashes when I wear it.” I apply lipstick while she watches. I’ve only recently begun to wear makeup and a little bit of jewelry. They don’t feel ridiculous on me like they used to, like I was a girl trying to be a woman.

“What about these shoes?” I ask. “I just got them.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Gladiators are tough. I think they should only be worn by very thin, very tall people. I don’t know,” she says again. “What else do you have? Give me options.”

“I’ll wear my boots.”

“Wear them if you like them. Your cat isn’t very friendly.”

“She’s friendly with me.”

“I didn’t know you liked cats.”

“I don’t.”

“So why’d you get one?”

“I wanted a pet and a dog seemed like too big a commitment.”

“But dogs are so much better,” she says, turning off the light. “Dogs come when you call them.”

“That’s the allure of a cat,” I say, “they’re independent,” which is what I’ve heard cat people say. I still don’t understand how cats work. You can’t yell at them or punish them like you can with a dog.

I follow my sister into the kitchen where the girls are opening cabinets, peering out the windows into the dark.

Leah bends down to pet my cat, bracelets jangling. “I like him,” she says. “He’s nice.”

“She.”

“She’s a sweetie. Aren’t you a sweetie?”

“Let’s go,” my sister says.

I turn on the porch light, lock the door, and we pile into a small yellow car. Leah is on one side of me and a girl named Jenna is on the other. I can feel myself becoming more and more uncomfortable but my sister catches my eye in the mirror and I think, Everything is fine, everything is just fine. I try to convince myself this is fun, that this is what people do—they go out and drink with their girlfriends and have fun. They meet men. They take shots and lose themselves in the night. But then the cars on the interstate come to a standstill and my breathing becomes more and more labored and I can’t see whether it’s a wreck or what. I don’t know why I had to be in the middle, my arms and legs touching people.

By the time we park, my heart’s beating so fast I can feel it all over my body.

At the door, I show the guy my license and follow them inside. It’s hard to make out faces. My sister and her friends slip into a booth and I walk over to the bar and squeeze between two guys. The bar is busy and the men talk over me. I can feel them checking me out, assessing my body. I wait, holding up my credit card, as they talk about a model one of them used to date. I could turn to the fat one and grab him by the neck. I could reach into my purse for my mace and test it out, as I’ve been wanting to do for so long. If I had a gun, it’d be the same thing. I’d want to shoot somebody. Something would need to happen. I glance over at my sister and her friends and they’re all hair and eyes and teeth. One of the guys swivels on his stool, brushing his arm against my chest, and I turn and walk out. I don’t look at the door guy. I stand at the curb and lift my arm; my sweater slips down, exposing a slim wrist. I’ve never been so thin, not even as a teenager. I can see how bones could become a problem. They knock so pleasantly against counters, dig into the mattress while you sleep.

I’m nervous that my sister will find me before a cab pulls up, that the door guy is wondering what’s wrong with me, but then a cab pulls up and I’m settling into the backseat. I feel so much relief I want to tell the man to take me somewhere other than home, but I give him my address and ask him questions, engage him in the conversation he seems so desperate to have. He’s from Ghana. His family is still at home. He sends money, visits once every three years because the flight is so expensive. Hearing about his life makes me want to appreciate mine. He’s alone in a foreign country, speaking a foreign tongue, having the same conversation over and over with people who don’t care.

When he pulls up to my house, I tip him ten dollars and he gives me his card, which I leave on the backseat.


From bed, with my cat on my legs, I call my mother. She picks up on the first ring. As soon as I hear her voice, I regret it.

“I was worried about you,” she says.

“Did you think I might be dead?”

“No, of course not. Why would I think that? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know. I was kidding.”

She doesn’t say anything for a while. And then she says, “How are things with Beth?”

“They’re fine,” I say, wondering whether my sister has talked to her, what she’s said. They talk all the time. My sister only pretends like our mother gets on her nerves. It’s one of the things that make her likeable; she always acts like she can relate. And now they have a wedding to plan. It’ll be a destination wedding, I bet, and a flight will be required. The last time I flew, I was seated next to an obese woman who spilled over onto my side. Her arms were covered in some kind of scabs. She was very nice, asking me questions and offering me things so I wouldn’t complain, and I didn’t, but when I got up to use the bathroom, I found another seat. After a few minutes, the woman turned to look for me. She squinted and pointed like I had wronged her horribly.