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ALMOST PERFECT
Jules
Things my dad taught me—be direct when you want something.
Things my mom taught me—lubricate a request with a gift.
I go with Mom’s guidance when it comes to asking Scarlett if I can fill in for her in another two weeks.
After I finish my Krav Maga class on Sunday afternoon, I pop into a candle shop in my Chelsea neighborhood to snag a gift, then I head home to take a quick shower. Under the stream, I rehearse what to say when I stop by Scarlett’s bar in a bit. I hate walking into situations unprepared.
What if I’m tempted to shoutI sucked a guy’s cock in the library the other night and I want to do it again?What if I go on and blurt out every single personal detail about my encounter in front of all her customers? What if I reveal all my dirty dreams to…ugh…everyone?
My pulse skitters wildly as the awful images whirl. Suddenly, I’m picturing saying all those things. It feels so likely, as if I absolutely will do this, until I take a breath.
In for four—then out for a long count of eight. And again, as the hot water runs over me and I face the intrusive thoughts straight on. Labeling them for what they are. I can handle them. As the water patters against the tiles, I do my homework from my therapist.
These thoughts are not up to me.
They will just float through my mind and go away. I won’t act on them. I accept them instead of fighting them.
A few minutes of talk-back and I feel mostly better. I get out of the shower and dry off, then put on lotion, taking my time as I get more distance from the thoughts.
I’m calmer when I head to my favorite place—my closet.
I’ll be meeting my friends later tonight, so I pick something fun to wear, opting for a pair of black denim shorts I snagged from my favorite vintage shop, along with a lavender crop top. Since the weather’s not too hot yet, I grab a blazer that was once owned by some lady boss.
In the mirror, I strike a pose, assessing. If my sister were here, I’d ask her opinion.
I listen for Willa’s voice, but it’s grown faint through the years.
Just tug the blazer toward your shoulder. Don’t be afraid to show a little skin.
She was therealbold one. That was the problem. I’m the planner.
That was the problem too.
I’m almost ready to leave, but I need one more thing. I grab my anklet from the drawer of my jewelry box and fasten it on. It’s thin, with little silver stars dangling from it. Willa gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday seven years ago. When we learned all their possible meanings, we became obsessed with ankle bracelets, gifting them to each other constantly, trading them back and forth, then pretending they meant different things. Ridiculous things, all of them ultimately boiling down to anthem—fuck the patriarchy.
I flip the bird on her behalf, then grab my beige journal from my nightstand. A reminder ofwhyI’m making this request of Scarlett will do me good.
Why I’m going to such lengths for another time with that man.
Opening the journal, I take out the card I keep in there, setting it down on the bed, before I flip through the pages. I re-read the details I logged in the journal about Friday night.
Leather, orchids, fire. A teacher, a phantom, an un-gentleman. A tailored jacket for your knees. A request to come again.Then, with the pen from the loop holder, I add a few more words, written as fragments, like a haiku out of order, so no one can decipher it.Make me be quiet. Sometimes, but not other times. Flapper dress and…nothing.
The memories make me shiver.
“Done,” I say, then pick up the card and tuck it safely back inside and lock up the journal. I grab the gift for Scarlett, dropping something I snagged for Camden into a bag too. On the way out of my pint-size apartment, I stop and sniff the gardenias I picked up at the farmers’ market. They’re fragrant, peachy. Flowers have always made me happy, so they’re my little luxury.
They also settle me before I head into unusual situations, so I take one more hit, then I walk the few blocks to Better Days, powered by determination.
After pushing open the door, I march to the counter where my friend is uncapping two Modelos and sliding them to a pair of women, both wearing ripped jeans. When they go to a table, Scarlett turns to me, her bright blue eyes sparkling.
“Hey, babe,” Scarlett says, stretching out her inked arms for a hug that doesn’t quite happen across the counter. “You’re my heroine!”
I lean in to receive the almost embrace. “That’s me. How was your shift?”
