I gave the bass player an old iron nod and knelt down next to him by the fire. He was my type, a rare occurrence. I knew the sex would be hot by that invisible warming tension that floats over wood and flame into skin. I hadn't had sex in 6 months and my body and spirit were craving the intimacy. As he makes small talk, my eyes wander off to the 70 year old drunk lady at the end of the bar. She's wearing too much makeup, her jeans are tight and she is really fucking pathetic. Her nails are those long press on french manicure type. They contrast against her tan, wrinkled skin, the pinky nail has popped off. She has a pack of Winstons on the bar and looks like she is an expert at making blackberry moonshine.
"Is that going to be me someday?" I think to myself.
Again, my mind wanders. I'm drunk.
My steady five year non commitment, turning commitment, just bought a ticket to fly out from Cali. Here comes a knock down, drag out, sex fest extravaganza to test the water, again.
At least that sex will hold me over for another six months. He wants kids, I'm barren.
Hard to get just called me from Colorado saying things like, "buttercup" and "I miss you pussywillow." Baby boy is blowing up my phone with pictures of him making stupid faces on snap chat to make me laugh.
No, no and no.
Then, like a sick twist of fate, I get a call from ex lawyer dude. He's at an airport telling me "I miss you so much, I want to see you." all of it shit, stacking up like old poker chips. He wants to buy me a ticket to Seattle for a Rendezvous.
These stupid reminders are my only reassurance that I am not yet the old lady at the bar.
The bass player is still taking, I haven't heard a word he had said. He buys me a shot of Black Label obviously desperate to seal the deal.
If someone had ignored me for that long, although unintentional. I would have bailed.
I am getting faded, so none of that matters now.
This guy is telling a good story. I shift my focus.
Something to do with a Russian albino. He makes nice hand gestures and has a dimple when he smile's on his right cheek. Sexy.
My eyes scope his skin, tattoos. Predictable.
His eyes are a really gorgeous blue.
Or, maybe it's just the whiskey. "Are you single?" he says in a baritone raspy voice.
I smile at how lame the question is, "Yep!" I say.
"Wow, lucky me." he responds.
I start to feel queasy from his response.
I stand up and quickly head for the door.
He screams "wait!!!" but I am already gone.
"wait?" I say to myself.
"yeah, like an asshole for the real thing."
As I enter the uber I am bombarded by a hail storm of last years men blowing up my phone.
I wonder to myself, "how old was that bass player?"
The avenues start to spin. "I think my shoes are older than he was, good clean escape, lady!!" I remind myself as I tip the driver and shut the door.
Being single is absolutely droll at times like this. I'm drunk, the fire was warm, my shoes were older than him, they look better and have no scuffs. Those deep raspy voices were always my mating call, comparable to some creepy guy with an ass fetish. Deep sexy voices, talent and humor. I am aware of those warning signs by now. There is that but it's not enough as I slip out of my dress.
I think of the famous actor and how my girlfriend from Chicago told me, if she were me, she would let him fuck her like a farm animal.
Apparently he is a 12 on a scale that I don't understand. I have decided there is something
inherently wrong with me.
The principle behind the mathematics has something to do with money, availability, looks, fame and level of commitment. It's some form of trigonometry that women use to gage a mate. Somehow this elusive scale was not built into my DNA. To my own detriment, I follow my gut. This has caused my standards to be set at a level of some Jedi- Yoda- Tibetan Monk- Sixth Sense- I see Dead People meter. It stops me in my tracks from pursuing any of them or from ever getting laid.
I stumble to my front door and forget the fire.
I hit the bed with force.
I will wait.
I know how it is supposed to be.
My phone is still making that chirp, chirp sound. My eyes are burning from the waterproof mascara.
I put on an old Tom Waits album, stand up and run a bath.
I sink like a stone into the hot bubbles.
"This is cozy." I smile to myself as the record skips. I hope that I don't fall in love with you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you.........
I laugh as I realize it has taken me 6 years to fall in love with myself.
I'm a keeper and the best relationship I will ever have. I have fallen head over heels with being alone and it's getting way too comfortable.
My hair slides under the silky water as I drift away into the certainty and security of my everlasting commitment to myself and these awesome bubbles. My dog dips his nose into the water and puts his paw on my shoulder blade. The record continues to skip. "What is that on my dogs face?"
This is going to be a good year, at least until the whiskey wears off. I look again at my dog. "Oh, fuck." My dog chewed up my fifty dollar Nars red lipstick while I was out.
He's smiling at me with red teeth.
"What is it with dogs and lipstick?"
That's what I get for going out.
I have to work in the morning and I feel like a bad Beyoncé song. I'll figure it all out in the morning.
I think. He brings me a tennis ball, I bounce it perfectly against the record player. The song continues past the skip. I drain the bath and fall asleep in the warm tub. When I wake, I am freezing and naked. I think about what I let slip away that was solid last year. I giggle to myself,
"he used to call me flipper." I know I am such an asshole, damn.
I miss that man.