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Iris
Daisy and I took the long way home,stopping to smell trees and fire hydrants, greeting her admirers and sniffing as many butts as she could. I pulled my hood over my head, perhaps overly paranoid, but I still wasn’t used to being recognized. Fortunately, New Yorkers were very live and let live, and most paid scarce attention to little old rocker me, but there were always tourists and the occasional die-hard fan vying for autographs and pictures from the lead singer of The Seasons Change.
And then there were people I’d rather fuck a cactus than run into again.
Daisy plopped on her bottom two blocks from my place, seemingly deciding the sidewalk was the optimal place to nap.
“Come on, honey bunny. I’d carry you if I could, but you’re too damn plump.”
She settled her head on her paws, so I sat down on the edge of the bench beside her resting place, elbows on my knees, fists under my chin.
“Okay. I guess we’re going to sit here for a minute, but only a minute.”
With a sigh, I conjured up the image of the Irishman I’d flirted with in the park. Under no circumstance should I have been picking upanyone, but I’d never been able to resist an Irish brogue. Accents were my weakness, and that one in particular made me salivate.
The man attached to the accent had been just as tempting. My damp panties were evidence of that. I shivered, recalling the way he’d been so frank with me, telling me he wanted to enjoy me, like I was a delicious dessert.
Classically handsome, a superhero’s chiseled jaw, steel-gray eyes, immaculately faded haircut, impeccable attire—he made me want to run my hands all over him and mess him up a little. Or a lot. There was a lot of him to mess up too. Built like a wall made of marble, Ronan was intimidation in human form. If he hadn’t had that goofy dog with him and been so sweet to Daisy, I might not have gone near him, let alone flirted. Knowing there was some sweetness buried inside that daunting package made him even more attractive.
“Maybe the nice Irish man will let me get him dirty after I ply him with beer,” I whispered to Daisy. “That can’t happen until we go home and I put on something other than sweats.”
And maybe shower. I’d sunk into a pity party lately, and it had been a little longer than it should have been since I’d last bathed. Maybe a hot night with an Irish suitor without any strings would be just the thing to light a fire under my ass and rocket me out of my funk.
Daisy gazed up at me, and her pointy little ear twitched, bringing a smile out of me for simply existing and being adorable.
“Fine. You’ve done a fair job of cheering me up too, little girl.” Reaching down, I gave her head a hardy scratch and a nose boop. “If you’d just get up and walk the rest of the way home with Aunt Iris, you’d be my favorite person ever.”
Finally, after many long minutes of coaxing, she rose to her dainty feet and toddled down the sidewalk beside me. She really was an angel, and I was lucky to be spending time with her. My friend Claire and her husband, Dominic, were out of town for three weeks, and I’d begged them to let me watch Daisy. I was rarely home for long stretches, and even less often without some type of company. Daisy was watching over me more than I was taking care of her. Sometimes I thought she felt a little sorry for me. Like last night when I was lip synching to Dolly Parton in my underwear while I ate a pint of vegan ice cream.
When I arrived at my townhouse, my upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Krause, a widow since 1982, was pacing on our shared stoop, ringing her hands. When she spotted Daisy and me, she rushed down the four steps to the sidewalk, blocking my path with her reed-thin body.
“Oh, Iris. I’m so sorry.”
I laid my hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “What? What’s going on?”
“They must have come when I was napping or I would have heard them. Oh, it’s awful, honey. I would’ve called the cops, but I knew you’d be back soon.”
“Oh.” My heart plummeted to the ground. I handed her Daisy’s leash absently. “Please hold on to her for me. I’ll just go check my place and then decide what to do I guess.”
“Be careful, honey.” Mrs. Krause’s voice sounded far away even though I’d only taken a couple steps. A freight train rumbled in my ears as I opened the door to our shared entryway.
I bought my apartment a year ago with my first really big check from my record company. Mrs. Krause had been leery of me, a single woman, musician, covered in tattoos, barely twenty-four at the time. We became fast friends when I painted my front door Tiffany blue and she asked me to paint hers the same color. This apartment was my safe space, the home I didn’t get to spend nearly enough time in.
The splash of blood red paint on my door nearly rendered my heart in two. The word “whore” carved into the original wood tightened my guts into knots. But it was the broken lock that had me wobbling on my feet so badly, I had to brace myself against the wall.
With a deep breath, I kicked it open. At first, I didn’t register what I was seeing. Things were so topsy-turvy, I couldn’t force my mind to believe this was indeed my apartment. Taking tentative steps, I walked through my violated sanctuary, tears welling in my eyes.
Magazines and piles of mail had been knocked over and scattered on the original hardwoods. Cushions tossed off my couch, pictures hanging crooked. My instruments were turned on their sides in my living room. Guitars pulled off the wall, drums flipped over, my set of percussion instruments dumped out in a heap. I couldn’t bear to check if they were broken—not when I had so much more horror show to see.
“Slut” was graffitied on one wall, “whore” on another. I didn’t care about being called those things. Being a woman in the heavy metal and rock scene had dulled the impact of those words long ago.
What nearly lit my skin on fire was that someone had felt entitled to express their opinion of me inside my home.
Someone had beeninside my home.
My bedroom had taken the worst of the abuse. Pillows and blankets were in a pile on the floor, and the smell of syrup and vinegar was so strong, I had to pull my sweatshirt over my nose and mouth to be able to enter the room.
When I’d bought this place, my bed had been my first purchase. I’d wanted something big enough I could spread out even when I had company, and comfortable enough I’d have to drag myself out of it. My bed was a cloud constructed by tiny cherubs and my bedding might as well have been spun with gold for how fucking expensive, yet incredibly luxurious it was. I’d never had anything like it, and although the price tag had made me gag a little, I’d been proud to buy it for myself.
