American Spirits

I squinted, trying to see through not only the darkness but the tendrils of cigarette smoke as well that filled the crowded club. I had my arm snaked around the hips of Claudine, a girl that I had met two weeks before in this same club, as she grinded them against my own. Lime and turquoise lights bounced off of her practically white hair, which was frizzy and crazy from all the dancing. She licked her lips like they had sugar covering them and pulled at my neck until my ear was level with her mouth. Her breath smelled like the American Spirit yellows that seemed to be glued between her pouty lips every time I was around her. I found her smoking disgusting, but her body was heavenly. She whispered something in my ear that I couldn’t make out over the EDM that rattled my skull. I looked blankly at her, half trying to figure out what she said, half trying to see if she would say it again. She repeated herself louder, shouting into my ear.

“What do you want out of this?”

It was such a vague question and I wanted to pry further, so I replied,

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Plain, simple, and dishonest. Even Jack Daniel’s Honey couldn’t confuse the meaning behind her question. I knew that she wanted to know why I was keeping her around instead of just ghosting her after the first night we had sex.

I wasn’t exactly sure she’d heard what I said, and I knew for a fact that what she’d asked me would mean further conversation. She paused for a second before lacing her hand between my fingers and pulling me behind her. She walked quickly, which let me know that she knew exactly where she was taking me and exactly why she was taking me there. We went straight out of the back entrance of the club and into the cold midnight.

The actuality of how drunk I was hit me when Claudine led me up the metal steps of a fire escape attached to the apartment complex that shared the alley with Eight Ball. Distracted by the clanging of my feet against the stairs, I stumbled and clenched the railing until confident that I’d regained my balance. Claudine chuckled at my unsteadiness. She was completely sober because she said she didn’t enjoy not having full control over her life at all times. I found this insanely humorous because I couldn’t remember a single time I’d ever felt like I had complete control over my life, and the booze helped me forget that dismal realization. Both of us sat, feet dangling over the edge of the escape, a cigarette suddenly appearing between her deep burgundy lips. My drunkenness had caused me to forget the reason that we’d even come outside in the first place, and I guess she figured it less important to talk than she had before. We both felt comfortable sitting in silence on the fire escape in the cold Denver nighttime.

I stared at her thighs. She wore ripped pantyhose, but I could still see her milky skin glowing through the holes in the fabric. I wanted to kiss her thighs more than I wanted to kiss her mouth. I looked up to her face, her cheeks and nose were bright pink from the air around us. Thick, inky eyeliner matched the color of her top and very, very short black skirt, which she wore despite the chill. I realized just how stark a contrast her looks were to mine. Her petite body mismatched my own tall and wiry frame, and her all-black outfit didn’t belong with my mom jeans and fleece-lined denim jacket. The longer I stared at her, the more entranced by her mouth and nose I became. Her nose was cute and buttony, much unlike my bird-like nose. I wanted more than anything to see her face washed over with pleasure again because that was maybe the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Except for maybe all of the marble statues I had seen in my undergraduate graduation trip to Italy that I had taken two summers ago. She reminded me of goth girls I’d seen in the porn that I got off to on Thursday nights when I decided not to get ultimately shit-faced. Only Thursday nights, though, because I was alone and the other nights of the week were reserved for pounding back drinks and not remembering the name of the person in my bed the next morning.

Claudine sat on the edge of my bed in the same way she sat on the edge of the fire escape, feet dangling, hands tucked under her. Her tiny body would not allow her feet to touch the floor, she looked like a nymphet. She had replaced her black outfit with nakedness, or really I had replaced it for her. Only her black pantyhose remained, and those were entirely torn open. I was beginning to think that those pantyhose were just as much a part of her as her oxblood lips or her American Spirit yellows-- she always seemed to have them on. I wasn’t naked anymore, I’d put my clothes back on afterward almost as quickly as I had ripped hers off when we stepped into my apartment. Her thighs had small purple marks on them. Her mouth tasted like cigarette smoke, which disgusted me. By now, she was curled underneath my sheets, eyelids fluttering back open, trying to coerce herself out of dozing off in my bed again tonight. She obviously had a hard time convincing herself because within minutes, she was knocked out in my bed for the fifth night this week.

I sat up in the washed-out lines that my blinds were casting over my bedroom and poured a glass of gin. Sipping it, I glanced over at Claudine slipping back into her clothes. At the sight of her, I tilted the glass back and finished it in one gulp. She looked just as pretty as she had before she’d fallen asleep, and I wondered if that’s what girls who don’t drink look like every time they wake up-- pure and angelic. My lips fell open as if I were about to say something, but my head was screaming at me not to, so I obeyed. They returned back to my glass instead, my head on fire with drunken thoughts. It begged me to continue staring at Claudine, who was still sound asleep and dreaming.

“Jesus, Margot. You look like shit,”Claudine said. “I want Clark’s.”

I didn’t want to go. Clark’s is the breakfast diner that you just go to after you hook up with a stranger and happen to actually enjoy their company. It’s where you take the hookups that you see yourself spending a lot more time with. I have made it a life point to never attend breakfast at Clark’s with nightly lovers, and despite some sort of internal protest, I wasn’t about to start. Besides, I didn’t actually like Claudine. I only enjoyed her company because of her thighs and maybe her tits.

“So I’m gonna take that as a no. Do you have eggs?”

“I’m vegan.” This was a lie.

“Uh--”

“I’m not hungry,” I said, colder than a normal person should have reacted.

Then silence. It was awkward because neither of us had much to say after that. She just stared and stared and stared, and I wanted to tell her to stop looking at me because it was freaking me out, but my mouth was occupied with gin. Her gaze shifted from me to the room around me. Surprisingly, she hadn’t brought up my dump of a place on the previous nights she’d spent in my apartment. I knew she wasn’t going to leave that realm of discussion untouched, though, so I gulped down my second (or was it third?) glass of the morning in preparation to actually have to talk to her about something other than whether the sex was good or whether or not I wanted breakfast.

“Do you want me to help you clean your place up a bit?” She asked too many damn

questions.

Between the student loans and the dead-end hardware store job, I didn’t have the means to even think about living somewhere else. My apartment truly was a dump-- wallpaper peeling and ceiling leaks in just about every room. On top of that, I never cleaned. There were to-go cups on just about every surface of the kitchen and the bathroom had a bigger roach problem than I’d care to admit. Usually, it would go unnoticed. The guys and girls I’d bring back to my place would leave as soon as they sobered up, not having time to notice the mess. Honestly, I barely even had time to notice the mess, being as I was gone to work or a bar most of the time.

Alongside the mess, there are two of my discernible personality traits hidden in my bedroom. Hanging above my headboard was a set of hooks that held one of my most prized possessions-- a black, heart-shaped crop. Whether or not it was used on me or used by me depended solely on who I was with. Usually, guys liked to use it on me, whereas when I was with another woman, I’d use it on her. Surrounding the crop, there were scrawly sketches of various people that I’d invited into my bed. I never talked to any of them again, but their faces were in my personal gallery. There were at least forty-six of them up there, and those were just the ones I had met since moving back home to Denver after a mental breakdown interrupted my graduate school progress. Moving home was supposed to help me get my life back together, but instead just fueled a frenzy of drunkenness and casual sex.

“That's my wall of fame up there. You’re gonna be in my nympho museum”, I pointed up behind my head.

By saying this, I was trying to also answer her question from the night before, in the club. I was trying to let her know that she was gonna be up there like the rest of them. She didn’t pick up on that though because she didn’t leave. Some people were okay with just being used for sex, but Claudine didn’t seem like the type of girl to let another girl just fuck around with her. Especially since she asked me to breakfast. Claudine seemed like the type of girl that would hold my hair while I puked up a whole bottle of Moscato and wipe my tears when I was sad drunk. I couldn’t help but feel like a shitty person for being mad at her for this. I probably should’ve fallen madly in love with Claudine. But I didn’t. Everything about her made me want to be sober, and she made me remember that I’m emotionally unstable. She made me feel like I had feelings for her. I hated that. Having feelings about anything was something that I just didn’t do. Everything about her undid everything that I wanted to just go away. She was breaking barriers without even trying.

“What do you want from this?”, she asked again.

If anyone else had asked, I would’ve known that I just wanted sex, but with Claudine, I didn’t.

“What do you want?.”

“Honestly, Margot, I just want to be around you.”

“I just want more whiskey. Really.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, are you trying to drink yourself to death?”

Sounded like a good plan.

After that, I put on a Bikini Kill record and ignored every single word she said to me, so she went home. Her eyes were shiny when she left. I think she was trying not to cry.

“You aren’t that strong. You’re gonna break--”, her voice cracked, “-- at some point,

and you can’t fix it yourself.”

I shut the door behind her, sliding to the floor with my back pressed against it. My head was fuzzy, but I knew she was right. I got the urge to leave my apartment. I wanted to chase Claudine at first, to bring her back and apologize and to go to Clark’s with her, but I just repeated to myself that I only missed her thighs and maybe her tits. And also maybe I missed her lips, but that was all I missed about her. And then I drank some more. And then some more. And then I woke up confused. It was dark outside, and I looked at the red glow of my alarm clock. 2:49 A.M. There was another stranger in my bed-- a blonde, curly headed boy. His bare chest was pressed against my side, and his arm was draped over me. His mouth hung open with exhaustion.

I carefully slid out of his embrace and stood up. The concrete floors were freezing under my feet, and I was still drunk. I wobbled around and had trouble balancing. I scanned my room, my eyes adjusting to the lack of light. I picked up my t-shirt off the floor, slipping it on with no bra underneath. I slid into my jeans and pocketed the condom wrapper on the nightstand, making a mental note to throw it away and clean my apartment later. I walked out of my bedroom and then straight out the door.

The chime on the door of the 24-hour corner store on my block tinkled when I walked in. I was greeted by a side-eyed glance from the cashier and no words. I made my way back to the glass doors on the back wall. I felt a coolness wash over my face and neck when I opened one of them. I grabbed out a twelve-pack of Strawberitas and let the door swing back. I made my way back to the front of the store and lifted the box to the counter.

“Will this be all for you tonight, Margot?” the cashier asked, remembering my name

because coming here in the middle of the night when I run out of alcohol is

a normalcy.

“Actually, can I get a pack of American Spirit yellows, too?” I replied, pulling a lighter

off of the display and placing it on the counter.

In the colored light of Eight Ball, I parted a veil of cigarette smoke with my fingers. I twirled it out of existence and when it fully cleared, I saw a bouncing of iridescent frizz and immediately felt nauseous. I was beyond drunk and my legs were wobbly, but I started towards her anyways. I grabbed Claudine’s shoulder and she turned to face me, her lips falling open when she registered who I was. She was different. Her hand was clutching a cup, no doubt filled with liquor. She was swaying, out of rhythm with the music that was blaring. She blinked, wetness brimming her eyes, and shied away from me. I choked on the words in my throat and headed straight for the exit, abandoning her on the dancefloor. I was hit by a wall of cold air when I made it into the back alley. It was December now and I was leaving to go back to grad school in a month. I had hoped that if I ever saw Claudine again that I’d be able to tell her all the things I stopped myself from saying before, but seeing her again only made me more terrified of being alive and having feelings. I sat atop the fire escape, feet dangling, cigarette between lips. I pulled a drag and held the smoke in my lungs until it burned. That's how it felt to be near Claudine.

Entirely too drunk for my own good, or anyone else’s for that matter, I watched as Claudine stumbled out into the alley. She was held up by a lanky goth boy and he was the only thing keeping her from hitting the icy street from intoxication. He looked up at me and gave a nod, unaware that the girl he was dragging along was spending every night in my bed only months ago. Claudine giggled and stumbled over her feet, falling into him even more. They disappeared into the winter night while I stole another inhale of my cigarette.

“I hate you!”, I screamed behind them, lungs burning and tears freezing on my face. Except I didn’t. I loved her.