You (and Her)
You drive during the day. There's no strategy (when was the last time you really had a plan?). You just like stopping your car at night, going into bars, finding someone (somewhat) suitable. There's not even an engagement anymore, so you don't have to feel guilty (but you do anyway).
"Scotch," you order, sliding onto a stool. The bartender nods, and you try to remember what state this is. You don't scan the room -- someone (eventually) will come to you.
"Whiskey sour," a voice (female, not that it matters) says to your left. You look over only after you sense her watching you. "Hey," she says from a few stools away, "you want some company?"
She's blond, pretty enough, way too jittery, but she'll do (you're assuming that she wants it, assuming that she doesn't care how tired you look).
"Sure," you say, and she happily slides over to the seat next to yours.
"I'm glad to have someone to talk to," she begins. "Everyone I know here is back at the hotel." She smiles, but you don't really believe in her brightness (you have no faith in joy). "I'm Donna." She extends her hand, and you take it.
"Brenda."
"Nice to meet you."
"Same here." And you propose a toast to new friends (who'll never see each other again).
She talks (and talks and talks) about her boss, her job, her (oh-so-charmed) life, and you let her. You know that if you let her go on long enough, she'll feel comfortable going anywhere with you.
"So, this is another stop in the campaign. Pressing flesh, getting the message out there." There's a lack of cynicism (even honest-to-God whimsy) and you don't know if you want to kiss her or smack her.
"Where is this exactly?" you ask.
Her forehead crinkles like she thinks you're making fun of her, but she can't figure out how. "Kansas City. Missouri," she says.
"I've been on the road for a while," you say. "Lost track of where I was."
"Where are you going to?" she asks, finger tracing the rim of her glass.
You shrug. "Fuck if I know."
"I've been reading travel books."
The comment seems to come out of nowhere -- you're no longer thinking about your trip (because there's Nate and his baby and his surgery and maybe he's dead now and everyone you've fucked and Billy and your parents and every fucking thing) but you say, "Oh, yeah?" like you really want to know all about her reading list.
"Yeah. And there was this one that said that the unplanned trip is sometimes the most satisfying."
"Has this person ever gone on an unplanned trip?" you challenge, but she doesn't grab the gauntlet you've thrown down.
"I guess," she shrugs. "This other one said--"
Donna seems to read a lot (but maybe she just wants you to think she does). You wonder if you should tell her that you were writing a book (and fucking half of California in the process); that you're no longer trying (but still willing to let anyone in your bed). Or maybe you should tell her you were 'Charlotte Light and Dark.' But all of those revelations are for fast friends or regular intimates; she is neither.
"You wanna get out of here?" You might be interrupting her, but you don't care. She doesn't seem to care, but she might be pretending.
"Sure."
You take your car; she gives you directions -- to a Holiday Inn of all places. She takes you to her room, eyes scanning the halls as if someone's going to catch her.
"We have to be quiet," she says after she (so softly) closes the door.
"Why?"
"Because, I work with the people in these rooms around us. If they hear us--"
"They're not going to have the guts to ask you what you were doing."
"Well..." She trails off, like she's trying to figure out an argument.
You move closer to her (close enough to touch, but you don't put a hand on her), say, "Unless you're sleeping with one of them. Then she -- or he -- would give a shit."
"Not anymore," she mutters. There's a lack of satisfaction (even honest-to-God depression) and you don't know if you want to kiss her or smack her. But she makes the decision for you (as if you were really going to choose the latter), kisses you (so, so softly). You feel her hand slip up the back of your shirt, the familiar feel of skin on skin.
Sex. Satisfying. Simple (it's what's before and after that's complicated). This is what you need. Maybe it's what she needs, too (that's not really important).
Her underwear is pink (like a cute little girl's). Yours is mismatched, or so you realize when they're strewn on the hotel room floor. She kisses your neck, sucks on your collarbone, lowers her mouth to one of your breasts. Her touch is mechanical, like it's all been tried out on someone she was more invested in (maybe the person she's frightened will hear her?), but you still respond. There's always that hum inside you, even when the passion doesn't exist (maybe that's why it's an addiction, an illness, and maybe you should've stuck to the bullshit a little longer).
But then she's biting you and you're hissing and she's apologizing. "Don't," you say, and she doesn't get it, so you clarify with, "Don't stop."
She's back to abusing your skin with her mouth (and it hurts so damn good).
Your hand is between her legs. She's biting you again, this time on your shoulder.
"Don't stop," she utters (you almost want to, just to see what her reaction would be). Then her mouth is on your neck, on your chin, on your ear. She whimpers as your hand moves faster, arches her hips against your fingers.
When she comes, she buries her head in your neck, says, "Brenda," and you try (so, so weakly) to remember her name.
This is not the best sex you've ever had. It's better than some, though, and her mouth is surer than that of your average blond bar pick-up. She strokes your thighs as her tongue slips in and out of you. You don't say anything, barely move (breathing corpse in a stranger's bed).
You don't see stars when you come (this is not about other worlds), but it feels good (makes it worth it, somewhat). You remember her name (but it doesn't leave your lips).
She doesn't try to kiss you (thankfully).
As you get dressed, she's back to incessant talking (she has to get up early in the morning, has to get some sleep). Modesty (nonsense) has dictated that she covers her body with a sheet until she finds a shirt and sweatpants.
"I mean, I never thought I'd be getting up at four in the morning. I waited tables after I dropped out, and I always worked, like eleven to six. Now I'm used to it, but you probably should go anyway. Unless you don't want to."
"No, that's okay," you say. "I have to go."
"Sure. Okay." She pauses (face saying something you're not all that interested in reading). "Maybe you could call me if you're ever in D.C."
She sounds hopeful, like this is the beginning of a beautiful something. You want to tell her: things are never beautiful -- and, if they are, they'll turn ugly soon enough.
But you lie to her, tell her that you will if you're ever in town, sure. Just another fabrication used when there's casual sex involved, except you think she believes you. You'd pity her if you had the energy.
She gives you her number, gives you a tiny kiss goodbye, and you don't give her a backward glance. When you're pulling out of your parking space, you crumple up the piece of paper (yellow post-it with jumbled blue writing) and throw it out the window.
You turn a corner, and you don't know where you're going next (you never, ever have).