The Perfect Pair

The landing wasn’t exactly soft, but, honestly, it could’ve been worse. My grip had been getting steadily and scarily less secure all night. It was that last spin around the floor that really did the trick. She never could resist an R&B throwback. I managed to hold on a bit longer, but I finally let go in the bathroom stall. Ironically, it was as still as she’d been all night. I got tangled in her hair and bobbed there for a while before falling to her sleeve and getting knocked into the graffiti-covered door and landing with a splash into a disgusting puddle.

I was a bit dazed but, you see, at least I hit a few soft obstacles that slowed my fall along the way. Don’t get me wrong, it was far from fun, lying there bruised and soaked in a gruesome mixture of urine, toilet water and sour mix. I mean just minutes before, I shined and sparkled in the spotlight. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. A stall over, my backing teetered near the edge of a drain. I hoped it knew it wasn’t its fault. To be true, I’d had many over the years, but this one was my favorite in a long while. We just fit, you know?

She was oblivious to it all, stepping right over me without notice or a second thought. I wanted to be angry, and I was a little, but I knew she’d kick herself when she realized her error. She’d probably even come back around looking for me, gleeful albeit grossed out when she spotted me, wet and pathetic. A quick rinse, and I’d be good as new. I’d always been one of her favorites, her going out go-to. And why not? At the risk of sounding pompous, there aren’t many looks I can’t pull off. T-shirts, that dress she bought in San Diego, her favorite sweater. I prided myself in being the gold-plated cherry atop them all.

I loved her, too. Before she came along, I laid for months in the dusty display case of an even dustier thrift store, but I had my partner to keep me company. Still, the days were long and pretty bleak. The details around how I found myself there are a tad fuzzy. I was just a stud back then. To be fair, I'd get whispered about here and there. Sometimes, the glass would slide open, fresh air would rush in and I'd get some reprieve from the stuffiness. Shoppers would occasionally slide their fingers over my finish, but alas, no sell. I couldn't call it. I felt good, I looked good. I was “oh-so-charming” as one lady with a thick southern accent once called me. After a while, I conceded that I was just “a little too out there” as another shopper opined. Too colorful, too big, too bold.

But one day she came in with a friend, bouncing and bubbly, and sipping something the color of seaweed. She poked around the shop for a while, stopping to take a closer look at a clutch covered in bejeweled bananas and a stack of vintage Playboys. She and her friend were headed out without buying anything, but as she waved goodbye to the shop owner, I caught her eye. She flipped her sunglasses from her eyes up to the top of her head and stepped closer. “Wait!” She reached out and grabbed her friend’s forearm. “Those” she pointed to me, “I'll take those.”

With that, I was wrapped up neatly and sent off to my new home. Before work or a date night or a weekend away, I’d beam as she surveyed her options. I hung among an alluring mix of quirky and classic, and, boy, were we all unique. Chandeliers, hoops, drops, studs — you name it. She was running late more often than not, but she always managed to give us her undivided attention. I wasn’t always chosen, by any means, but when I was you can bet I glowed even brighter. Of course, I can’t say for sure, but I like to think she had an extra pep in her step on those days. Maybe it was all in my head, but I felt like I was getting jostled around more than usual, you know? In a good way, I mean.

As I lay there sopping in a stinky stew, I thought of her and of my partner, presumably still dangling safely above her collarbone, but what would become of it without its lifelong mate, if I was never recovered that is. It’d probably be tossed into that bottom drawer of her jewelry box with the forgotten undesirables, drowning in a sea of broken clasps, too-loose backings and other sad singles. Or worse: Maybe she’d chuck it straight into the trash. I shudder to think. It was quiet for a while, save for the distant thump thump of the music. What was that tune? It was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. But then the door opened and it was unmuffled for just a moment, but it was long enough. Sure! It was Believe. A classic.

Alongside Cher’s unmistakable low tone, a couple of other voices entered. Was it her? My girl? I couldn’t quite tell. They stopped talking before I could hone in. One went into the stall next to where I’d been humiliatingly abandoned, and I watched with horror as a chunky-heeled boot knocked my backing down the drain. Poor bastard. Au revoir, old friend. I felt awful, but I guiltily sent up a prayer of thanks that that wasn’t me, but the night was still young. Chunky Boot flushed and exited, and as she got back to chatting with her buddy, I quickly realized that neither of them were her. Instead, from what I gathered, one gal worked there as a waitress. She wasn’t working that night but came in rocking her sluttiest outfit (her word, not mine) to try to grab the attention of a bartender she’d been crushing on, but apparently he wasn’t giving her the time of day. As for her friend, she didn’t seem like she could care much less about any of it. She was busy counting down the minutes until last call.

When they left, a trail of ladies followed, each with their own hopes for and frustrations with the night. And there was lots to celebrate: two birthdays, a promotion, and a divorce even. Good for them, but where the hell was she? Still on the dance floor no doubt. After a while, things got quiet again and I thought I’d better start to accept my fate. We’d had a good run, I guess. I wondered where I’d end up. Swept up and discarded, probably. That was OK, I guess. I’d always remember her fondly and I hoped she’d mourn me, sending me light and love whenever she pulled out that one blouse with which I was absolute perfection.

I’d started to doze when the door opened once more. No voices this time, just the click clack of heels across the dingy tile, back and forth and back again, and then my stall door swung open followed by a shriek. It was her! Finally! “Ew, ew, ew, ew,” she said as she picked me up, pinching me ever so delicately between her thumb and forefinger. I took no offense. She cut the sink faucet on and ran me under the cold water. I must say, it was refreshing, invigorating even. She gave me a rough shake and then wedged me into her bag. I settled in, happy as a clam, between a bobby pin and a pack of gum.