After a loveless, childless marriage, which thankfully lasted only a few years, I divorced Dan, a worthless, cheating bastard and got on with my life. I had difficulty believing I was now an emancipated woman! I was young, goddammit, and still in my twenties, but not for much longer.
Dan-O had done such a number on me that for years I was allergic to serious relationships but, admittedly, I had, and still have, a very strong libido. Celibacy was not an option. Finding a man, or at least a life support system for a healthy cock to satisfy my needs, wasn't difficult, but the ecstasy didn't last long. After John or Robert or Michael or...what was his name, again?...took care of business, he'd be off and I'd find myself back at the Billiard Parlor, a local hangout for singles looking to meet up, trolling for fresh meat.
One particular Saturday night, which was also the day after my thirty-third birthday, I sat in my usual spot, a small, round table in a dark corner of the bar, sipping a drink with Nancy, my best friend, trying to stay sober enough to converse with any comers who approached our table. Such was our weekend habit for longer than I care to remember. Maybe it was because I was a year older than the last time I sat at that very same table, but that particular night was a little more depressing than usual.
"Over there." Nancy almost pointed at a prospect, but refrained. "He looks pretty good." She and I shared an office downtown at the Larson Insurance Agency as stenographers. We also shared the same personal situation, meaning we were both divorced, but still young-ish and needing attention. We met on the job and, after a few lunches, discovered how much we had in common, becoming fast friends.
"He's new, isn't he?" I squinted, trying to make out the tall figure on the other side of the dimly-lit room. Yes, I was nearsighted and wore glasses, but never at the Billiard Parlor, or "BP," as we regulars called it. The drink was stronger than I expected, made by a pale, skinny bartender with bottle-black hair who'd sampled me a few times in the past and was perhaps ready for more. Although he was barely second-string, I made a mental note regarding his availability. Mostly, I wanted to put my head on the table and close my eyes.
"He's been here before." Her eyes remaining on him, my plump, brunette girlfriend sipped her umbrellaed drink. "I'm surprised you haven't noticed. He's kinda cute."
"Honey." I gazed past heavy eyelids to look at her profile. By now, I was slurring my words, "They're all getting to be the same."
"Yeah, I guess." Nancy finished her drink and was now futzing with the little umbrella, vacantly staring at the tiny accessory as she slowly opened and closed it, her mind wandering. "Sad that there's nothing new under the sun."
I noticed her shiny, red-painted fingernails as she stroked the umbrella's handle up and down. In my polluted state of mind, it looked like she was jerking it off, just like a slender, little penis. She gazed at me with her dark, doe-like eyes.
"Don't you hate it when you can remember their cocks, but not their faces?"
I merely chuckled, downing the rest of my drink in a single gulp, then scanned the smoky room, filled with the aural churn of a hundred or so voices of both sexes, all seeking companionship, if only for the night. Both ragged billiard tables were occupied by gents trying to show off their social and sporting skills, or lack of them. The clack of balls connecting was followed by the high-pitched twittering of a woman pretending to be impressed.
I gripped the table's edge as my surroundings shifted a bit. Oh, yeah, now I had a full buzz going! There was no way I could stay awake until the bartender got off at 2:30. Disgusted, I pushed away from the table, chair squeaking.
"Let's blow this fucking joint."
"You said it, sister." A familiar exchange that was becoming more and more common as weekend blurred into weekend. Nancy and I held each other steady as we staggered out to her blue Chevy Nova. We took turns driving each weekend and it was her turn.
I leaned against the passenger-side door, forehead resting on the cool metal roof, as she circled around to the driver's side. She pulled a wad of jangly keys from her purse. I listened as metal clinked against metal as she looked at each one closely in the low light for much too long.
"Too many goddamn keys for a single woman," I murmured to the gravel.
"Hush, now." She inserted a small, silver key into round lock, twisting it. Pulling the door open, she slid into the driver's seat. I got a nice glimpse of her ample breasts as her thumb and forefinger pulled up on the silver plastic shaft allowing me entry, forcing a drunken smile.
Creamy goodness.
Nancy pulled me onto the firm bench seat, buckling my seat belt with a loud click. She buckled herself, turning the ignition.
"I'm sorry." My face pressed against the door glass as we left the dim, multicolored fluorescent glow of the BP parking lot, the subdued roar of the car's V8 rising and falling as she shifted through the gears. "I'm sorry, again, that nothing materialized." She glanced at me before returning to watching the road.
"Why are you talking like it's your fault? That's ridiculous!" Driving home from the BP, she always took great care to keep to the posted speed limit, especially at that time of night when there were many bored cops just itching to write someone a ticket. Although she was the designated driver that evening, Nancy probably wasn't much more sober than me. "Sister, there was nothing in that room that appealed to me, and no amount of alcohol was going to create a Prince Charming out of that funky bunch. I'm glad we left when we did."
Her answer didn't surprise me, and it was no shocker that the BP had been a bust that evening, as it had been for many in recent months. The clientele was changing, and not for the better. She pulled up to the red traffic light on Evans Avenue. A right turn would've taken me home. A left turn would go to Nancy's. It was then that our thoughts coordinated. We had become very good at reading each other's minds. I mouthed her words a split-second before she said them.
"Stay over?"
She knew the answer.
I nodded, eyes closed.
The traffic light changed. Bathed in the green glow, she turned left, and we proceeded down Evans Avenue. Within ten minutes, Nancy made a right onto York Street, entering an older, working-class neighborhood where she lived alone in a small, tidy home. I felt the car turn onto her driveway, the electric garage door whirring, acoustics changing as she pulled inside.
"Come on, girlfriend." She pulled me from the car, and we managed to make our way into her kitchen. I leaned against the harvest gold refrigerator as she filled two tall plastic tumblers with tap water.
"You know the drill." She handed me one, keeping the other for herself.
With loud gulps, we both emptied our respective tumblers. She filled them again and we finished those, too, trying to minimize the morning's hangover.
