“The same thing the rest of us overly dressed chickadees here do.” She pops one hip out and tilts her head back and to the side in the perfect pin-up pose. “Tease!”
I wait for her to expound on that, until I realize that’s all I’m getting.
“What do you mean by—?”
“Oh no you don’t Miss Rose. I know you ain’t stealing my man out from underneath me. I already called dibs.” An instant frown comes to my face as the man (presumably) who answered the door makes a sudden appearance. What was it…Jerry Girl?
“If anyone gets dibs it certainly isn’t you,” Rose says, raising one scolding eyebrow and giving him a bemused smile. “There’s only one girl here who gets to stake her claim.”
I can see what road this is headed down, I know a set up when I see one. The idea of Honey and me is…not even worth considering. What little I do know about the woman has not benefited from this party so far.
It isn’t that she’s not attractive, it’s that she’s like oil to my water. Or perhaps more like strawberry milk to my black coffee. The two just don’t go together.
My eyes instinctively slide to Honey once again, like iron to a magnet. Despite my earlier reassurances, I find a visceral surge of jealousy hit me at the fact that the man in white now has his arm firmly around her waist.
There’s a knock on the door and Rose, being closest, walks the short distance to answer it. Leaving me with “Jerry Girl.”
“Between you and me, I never did like that Mistah Hickenbatter of Honey’s. I mean, yes the man is richer than Midas, but there’s more to a relationship than money. And baby, I’m the last girl to turn her nose up at the almighty dollar.” I scan him up and down with a wary look that makes him giggle like a teenager—one with a deep tenor. “Truth be told, I don’t trust either Francis or this Muffy woman. No, no, no, not one little bit. I think this party is Honey’s way of putting up a brave front, bless the child.”
So that’s what all of this is about, some break up…or love triangle…or…what the hell ever.
In other words, nothing I want to get wrapped up in.
A new group of drag queens dances in, each carrying a bottle of something alcoholic, momentarily distracting his attention away from me. I take that as my cue to quickly finish my champagne and sneak out behind them as they enter, each casting looks my way that tell me I’m leaving just in time.
“She’ll be here all night if you change your mind,” Rose says, catching me before I can fully escape. She leans against the door and hits me with a sardonic smile.
“I doubt that will happen.”
“Ainsi soit-il.” She smiles, closes her eyes, and shrugs one shoulder. “So be it.”
The door closes and I stare at it for a moment listening to the faded sounds of the song that has just started, “Lovefool.” I refuse to reflect on how the hell I know the title.
The music doesn’t sound nearly as loud now, so I suppose I at least served my intended purpose.
My hand comes up to pinch my forehead and I swivel around to stalk back to my own door, walking in and firmly closing it behind me. I fall back against it just to take a breath. My eyes fall to the pink sticky note still on the kitchen counter.
My instinct is to ball it up and toss it into the trash.
I leave it there instead.
Chapter Ten Honey
It’s morning, or what passes as such a thing for some people.
The party didn’t go nearly as long as I expected.
Jheri’s friends bringing more alcohol certainly livened things up, but that only encouraged them to suggest heading to an all-night karaoke place they know some time around one o’clock in the morning.
I took a pass on the adventure and stayed behind to at least tidy up a bit before the exhaustion set in. I eventually removed my shoes and the feathers from my hair and dozed off on the sofa.
Waking up, I see that I’m still in my Marchesa dress, which surprisingly doesn’t look the worse for wear.
I check the time on the microwave and see that it’s a little before five o’clock. This time of year the sun won’t be up for almost another two hours, but I’m feeling particularly chipper after that brief bit of sleep. I should at least gather up the bottles to take to the recycling chute.
No need to change out of this gorgeous Marchesa just to take out the trash; the same dress Francis bought me to escort him to a fancy gala.
There’s a metaphor there somewhere, one I probably shouldn’t ruminate over too heavily.
As I look around the room, I smile as I reminisce how much fun the party was. If last night proved anything, it’s that my friends are what truly make me happy, not fancy dresses, or luxury apartments, or even pink champagne.
In fact, I’m pretty sure I had more fun in the days when we all bought bottom-shelf vodka to mix with Kool-Aid and squeezed everyone into a five-hundred square foot apartment.
It’s a nice reminder that money doesn’t necessarily equal happiness.
I put the music on as I collect anything made of plastic, glass, or metal. The first song is “Sunday Kind of Love” by Etta James. I briefly think about scanning to something more upbeat to energize me.
Then, I come to my senses.
It may not be Sunday, but I’d like to think love is still in the air no matter what day of the week.
Besides, I have an almost religious reverence for famous female performers, especially the chanteuses. Etta’s mesmerizing voice also gives me a chance to think.
The party last night was a success in that it at least took my mind off Francis. Now, I can’t help but think of him again, wondering how he