get it to where you can’t see my
panty lines because of the way the material clings to my skin. On my left
thigh is a spray of pink embroidered flowers and that is pretty much the entire
design of the dress. It’s definitely one of my more expensive pieces of
clothing. I blew nearly an entire paycheck on it at a little boutique in one
of the nicer Chicago neighborhoods where there’s a Starbucks on every corner
where blonde girls triple park their VW Jettas to run in but they always take
their dog that fits perfectly inside of their purse. That’s the kind of girl I
imagine Drake Carroll taking out to dinner, not me, so at least I can look the
part for tonight, minus the blonde hair. It’s nearly 90 degrees outside and
the sun is down. I won’t freeze despite my lack of material to cover me up.
My shoes are an afterthought, which are gold strappy four inch heels that I can
barely walk in. I intend to carry them most of the evening if I have to, but
they match and I find a gold purse that I happened to buy the exact same day in
case of emergency. I’d deem tonight an emergency.
Kate is taking a nap. I think
she’s hung over. I am extra quiet so I don’t wake her, because I want to be on
my own tonight. I apply makeup precariously. Green and gold eye shadow, thick
black eyeliner and mascara and my eyes are unrecognizable as my own. A touch
of peach colored lipstick completes the look. I don’t need any foundation or blush,
since the little time I spend outside has already given me a natural flush.
Besides, upon inspection in the mirror, I can see that I’m glowing. It’s
because I want this date to happen. I’ve been anticipating it all day long. I
called off work for the night, telling Alicia I have a headache and couldn’t
make it in. She knows that means hangover, but I rarely call off so she
assumes I’m not lying and doesn’t give me any shit, though she should in this
instance.
Drake calls me when he arrives and
I hobble outside to meet him, wishing I’d practiced in the heels a bit longer.
He smells like cinnamon, I notice upon entering his car. It’s the same black
Mercedes he drove away in when I met him at Jack’s funeral. Everything inside
of the car is black as well and the dash is intimidatingly lit up with red and
blue lights. Music with loud bass is turned down low. I note he drives a
stick shift and watch in fascination the way he handles it as we coast down
Lake Shore Drive toward the city lights, Lake Michigan on our left.
“I thought we could discuss
creating a declaration of property tax transfer over dinner at Crimson,” Drake
says. “I’ll keep it very non-technical for you and just explain what you’re
signing before you sign it, and then we can enjoy our meal and some drinks.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. I
sincerely hope this is one of those dates where the man pays, because I
definitely can’t afford Crimson. It’s one of those fusion places with two
different types of cuisine that really have no business being together, but for
some reason it works and everyone loves it. I think it’s Thai and Italian or
something. It’s a place for people who actually care about what they’re eating
and survive on more than ramen noodles and cheap whiskey. Lucky for me, my
diet keeps me thin, and I think to myself about how people who can afford to
eat well probably have to spend their spare time working it off while I get to
lie around drunk. What a treat. It takes about fifteen minutes to drive
downtown tonight and Drake tells me a bit about himself while I listen and
stare at pretty the dash in hypnotic awe. He and his brother grew up not too
far from where I did in Elmwood and didn’t have much money, but their mother
said she’d scrub toilets to make sure they had a good education. His father
died when he was ten. His first apartment was on the south east side, which
even I won’t live in, even though
panty lines because of the way the material clings to my skin. On my left
thigh is a spray of pink embroidered flowers and that is pretty much the entire
design of the dress. It’s definitely one of my more expensive pieces of
clothing. I blew nearly an entire paycheck on it at a little boutique in one
of the nicer Chicago neighborhoods where there’s a Starbucks on every corner
where blonde girls triple park their VW Jettas to run in but they always take
their dog that fits perfectly inside of their purse. That’s the kind of girl I
imagine Drake Carroll taking out to dinner, not me, so at least I can look the
part for tonight, minus the blonde hair. It’s nearly 90 degrees outside and
the sun is down. I won’t freeze despite my lack of material to cover me up.
My shoes are an afterthought, which are gold strappy four inch heels that I can
barely walk in. I intend to carry them most of the evening if I have to, but
they match and I find a gold purse that I happened to buy the exact same day in
case of emergency. I’d deem tonight an emergency.
Kate is taking a nap. I think
she’s hung over. I am extra quiet so I don’t wake her, because I want to be on
my own tonight. I apply makeup precariously. Green and gold eye shadow, thick
black eyeliner and mascara and my eyes are unrecognizable as my own. A touch
of peach colored lipstick completes the look. I don’t need any foundation or blush,
since the little time I spend outside has already given me a natural flush.
Besides, upon inspection in the mirror, I can see that I’m glowing. It’s
because I want this date to happen. I’ve been anticipating it all day long. I
called off work for the night, telling Alicia I have a headache and couldn’t
make it in. She knows that means hangover, but I rarely call off so she
assumes I’m not lying and doesn’t give me any shit, though she should in this
instance.
Drake calls me when he arrives and
I hobble outside to meet him, wishing I’d practiced in the heels a bit longer.
He smells like cinnamon, I notice upon entering his car. It’s the same black
Mercedes he drove away in when I met him at Jack’s funeral. Everything inside
of the car is black as well and the dash is intimidatingly lit up with red and
blue lights. Music with loud bass is turned down low. I note he drives a
stick shift and watch in fascination the way he handles it as we coast down
Lake Shore Drive toward the city lights, Lake Michigan on our left.
“I thought we could discuss
creating a declaration of property tax transfer over dinner at Crimson,” Drake
says. “I’ll keep it very non-technical for you and just explain what you’re
signing before you sign it, and then we can enjoy our meal and some drinks.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. I
sincerely hope this is one of those dates where the man pays, because I
definitely can’t afford Crimson. It’s one of those fusion places with two
different types of cuisine that really have no business being together, but for
some reason it works and everyone loves it. I think it’s Thai and Italian or
something. It’s a place for people who actually care about what they’re eating
and survive on more than ramen noodles and cheap whiskey. Lucky for me, my
diet keeps me thin, and I think to myself about how people who can afford to
eat well probably have to spend their spare time working it off while I get to
lie around drunk. What a treat. It takes about fifteen minutes to drive
downtown tonight and Drake tells me a bit about himself while I listen and
stare at pretty the dash in hypnotic awe. He and his brother grew up not too
far from where I did in Elmwood and didn’t have much money, but their mother
said she’d scrub toilets to make sure they had a good education. His father
died when he was ten. His first apartment was on the south east side, which
even I won’t live in, even though
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