by Marianne Carlson
"I always thought there was something not quite right about her."
"Not quite right? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, you know, a little left of plumb. I mean, let's face it, she is drop dead gorgeous. I mean I really really have come to hate hate hate beautiful people. You know, they are just so perfect, I'd like to strangle them. Wouldn't you?"
"No." Marcia munched on her bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich as she looked around Annabelle's. Her dark eyes scanned the booths, the tables, the bars, only half listening, as if she was looking for someone. It was the usual lunch crowd, not an empty table, some of the heavy wooden twosomes set for three, elbows and knees knocking. Marcia vaguely wondered if the fire department was aware of this overcrowding. Background music, “Someone That I Used to Know.” repeated endlessly, almost hypnotically, adding a strange intensity to the atmosphere. The bar tender sang along as he mixed drinks, dancing behind the bar. He was in a good mood, shaking up those Margaritas.
"Well a fine lunch date you turned out to be. You haven't heard a word I have said." Kayla was definitely someone Marcia used to know, the change in her friend was immense and very sad. Her hair, too blonde, a severe Dutch Boy cut, aged her. It was as if Marcia was having lunch with a helmet. Her skin was sallow, pox marked under gobs of foundation, and her eyes were awful - pale, tired and mean. She wore one of those yoga workout outfits designed to go “from gym to dinner” which accentuated her huge shoulders and arms like an angry mama gorilla past her prime. Resentments, the mother of all rages, oozed from every pore.
"How's business? Any new clients?" Marcia needed to change the subject. Kayla had sensed the friendship waning for months, and the more Marcia withdrew, the angrier Kayla became. She was a ticking time bomb.
"They come and they go. One client wants me to be at her home at 6:30 in the morning, and another at her house at 7:00 at night. Some scattered in-between. And the traffic is brutal, just brutal. Being a personal trainer ain't what it's cut out to be. The truth of the matter is I am bone weary all the time.
"Maybe you should think about doing something else, Kayla. Being a personal trainer is a young persons career. You're in good shape, but this is just too much for you. It's too much."
“Well gee thanks for the encouragement. I thought friends were supposed to be supportive. With friends like you, who needs enemies?”
Marcia’s iphone began to hum. Expecting a call from Sam, she glanced to see if it was his number. “I’m sorry, Kayla, I have to take this.
“Go right ahead, anyone is more important than a friend in crisis.”
“In crisis?” Kayla was beginning to attract attention so she decided to let Sam go to voicemail which annoyed her. (Now you’re somebody that I used to know, used to know, used to know.)
“Yes, in crisis. I want a drink. Don’t you want a drink?”
“No.”
“Well, I do.” She began waving frantically to the server who was balancing too many plates en route to the kitchen.
“This place is going down hill. Can’t get anyone to wait on you any more.” Kayla continued waving her arms in the air like windmills until the happy bartender caught our server’s attention and pointed our way with a quick nod of his head, never losing a beat, a bemused smile on his face. He was kinda cute. (Now you’re somebody that I used to know, used to know, used to know.)
“Scotch rocks. Dewers. Make it a double.” Kayla barked her order to our server, talking to her as if she was a slave, not quite human. Within minutes the caramel-colored liquid arrived. Karla stirred the ice rapidly with one long red fingernail and then tossed down half the glass in one gulp.
It took but a very few minutes for the alcohol to do it’s number. Marcia found herself with a brand new person sitting opposite her, and not a welcome replacement. This replacement vibrated. It was as if a low voltage quiver was shooting waves of anger into her pores as her index finger stirred the ice frantically, and then ordered another double.
"You can sit there looking so perfect. No one knows how hard I try. God I hate you sometimes. Say something. Oh you're too high and mighty to talk to me now? I am doing everything I can to be the best personal trainer in the city and I am! I. am. the. best. Itch marketing. Mark.Et. Ting. I donhave the money to mark. Et. Myself. Whaddaya have to do to gedadrinkk around here?
Memories came flooding back. Marcia as a child, sitting at the dining room table, her father, very drunk, yelling at her mother. “You’re a worthless bitch. Whaddaya do all day, you piece of shit.” Marcia and her little sister never saying a word, playing with their food, terrified for their mother.
“Never try to reason with a drunk,” her mother told her later. “Just remove yourself from the scene as quickly as possible because you can’t win with a drunk, just try to be a beneficial presence, and then get the hell out. ”
The server and the happy bar tender stood over their table. “You need to leave,” the bar tender told Kayla who sat wedged into her chair, mama gorilla ready for battle.
“Fuckyou. I’m a paying customer.” Kayla slammed her fist down on the table, knocking over the empty scotch glass.
Marcia remained mute as the left over patrons sat, eyes riveted to their table. She wondered if she was a beneficial presence, but when the bartender winked at her, she didn’t care. He was kinda cute.
It's All Temporary
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