Julia's Night Out.
Julie waits by the door; stares around the bar; wonders what to tell Greg the youth who’d talked to her at the bar some hours ago; whether she ought to tell him or not at this early stage or to leave it until things move on a bit. Cass had gone off with Greg’s mate, the tall youth with the spots and an earring hanging from his ear like a piece of snot. Felicity hadn’t come with them, she’d said she was having a bad week of it; she’d only spoil the fun what with her running to the toilet every damned minute or so; besides she wanted to catch up on her studies.
He’s a long time, she muses, breathing the dense air, the heady smell of bodies too close together; drink; hot heat; perspiration; a sense that maybe she herself needed to go and pee before he came out; maybe she ought to wait in case he thought she’d gone off and dumped him like so much garbage, so she waits, holding her hands in front of her groin as if she were guarding the hidden treasure. The thought makes her laugh to herself; she smiles. The thought would not have amused Ryan and she knows that; is glad she can smile now for all that.
Greg comes out; takes her hand; puts on a smile like it fits him like a cheap suit.
- I’ve got to go, Julia says, releasing his hand, moving towards the toilets some metres away; giving him a smile; a wave of her hand.
- Sure, Greg says, watching her go; seeing the backside wiggle, her hips swaying side to side as if in dance.
She sits in the cubicle of the toilet; stares at the door which has writing in red ink about something she doesn’t want to know; so looks away; gazes at the walls which are an off white; seem dirty has if people had wiped their finger down it as they sat and brooded or mused on their plight or wishes.
How far should I go with him? she muses, holding her elbows on her knees, her hands in prayer like mode. She doesn’t feel up to saying things just yet; doesn’t want to go down any path that could lead to awkwardness; not just yet; not with him. She looks down at her hands, which are joined together as if she were praying and unjoins them and lowers her skirt over her knees and sighs.
What if he wants to go further? What then? Wrong week. Tell him that. Sorry can’t. One of those weeks. He’d blush and so would she. She knows she would; lies always make her feel unreal; a fraud. Years of that. God no.
