Dr. Girlfriend sat at the end of the bar, blubbering into her appletini. Under most circumstances she might feel the slightest twinge of shame, but at the moment she could care less. Maybe it was the alcohol talking…or maybe it was all the other stuff leading up to the alcohol. She couldn't let Phantom Limb see her crying, that was for certain. Nothing shamed an archvillainess more than having her leg humped by a limbless torso in a unitard.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a patron glide up to the bar. She straightened up and grabbed a stack of napkins from the lazy Susan on its edge. The bartender slid to the other end of the bar, coming out of his engrossment in the curling championships.
As she dabbed the streaks of eyeliner from her face, she looked at her new companion. The lady idly folded and draped a well-sewn trenchcoat on the barstool and whispered into the bartender's ear. He spring to attention, splashing rum and squeezing limes into a short glass in a blur. The lady watched him intently, her golden skin glistening in the low light of the bar. Looking away from her leggy companion, she instinctively draped her coat over her thighs – all the better to hide the unsightly cottage cheese-flesh. That sweater alone must have cost about the same as the maintenance cost of the Monarch's lair, she thought.
The lady hooked one Cuban heel on the lower rung of the barstool. A galaxy of movie stars danced in Dr. Girlfriend's head, all emanating the kind of incandescence that only late-night TV viewings can provide. The need for companionship outweighed her latent jealousy, and she turned back.
"Excuse me," Dr. Girlfriend intoned, her voice cracking. She suddenly felt self-conscious about her guttural Bronx bellow. The lady looked up, her eyebrows raised. A curl of white-blonde hair fell across her right eye. Dr. Girlfriend took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her head was swimming. She started again. "Has anyone ever told you…you look like…a movie star?"
The bartender placed her drink in front of the lady, his eyes darting back and forth as if he was watching a ping-pong game. He quickly turned away. The lady picked up her drink. "Thank you," she replied. A note of flattery curled through her voice, but her teeth gritted behind her smile. She took a sip from her drink. Embarrassed, Dr. Girlfriend turned to face the bar.
"I like your boots," the lady said after a moment.
Brightening, Dr. Girlfriend turned away from the bar. "Do you?" She pointed her toe to better show them off, but her leg got caught on the stool between them. "They're fake Manolos," she stage-whispered. "I got them on the Lower East Side.
"These are real Manolos." The lady lifted the hem of her jeans to show off her boots. Dr. Girlfriend's face fell, listening to the vowelish purr around the N in the word "Manolo." The lady winked. "And I had to pick up quite a few doubles to afford them, too."
Dr. Girlfriend smiled at this. As she took another sip of her drink, she could feel the lady taking a closer look at her costume. From this close proximity, the lady could probably see all the uneven stitches and flaws in the design.
"I'm almost afraid to ask, but…what do you do?"
"I arch." Dr. Girlfriend placed her drink back on the bar, her hand shaking. Where to begin? Her lip began to tremble as she thought of her work as Lady Au Pair and Queen Etherea, and all this business with the Monarch's trial. Despite her best efforts to control herself, she lapsed into tears.
"Oh dear. Please don't cry," the lady begged. "Those appletinis are expensive."
At least this will make it last longer," Dr. Girlfriend spat.
"There's nothing worse than a salty appletini, sweets," the lady muttered into her purse. After pushing around some high-tech accoutrements, she produced a small, wilted packet of facial tissues.
Dr. Girlfriend honked into a tissue as the lady placed her purse back on the bar. "I should have known it was a loaded question.
"It's okay. You didn't know."
"No, I mean from personal experience."
"You arch?"
Running her finger around the top of the glass, she looked away. "Let's just say that I'm looking for new employment."
"What happened?"
She sighed. "For a while I was working for this startup villain off the coast of South America. He had these great ideas for new gadgets in villainy, but they came at a big expense." Her eyes began to mist up, but she breathed in deeply and straightened her posture. "And it's one thing when you're dealing with individuals, but he wanted to off his last…nemesis…who was married and had young kids."
Dr. Girlfriend immediately thought of the Ventures. At least Hank and Dean were of reasonable age, and of indeterminate origin. And…she didn't want to think about that. "What did you do?"
Here the lady turned back to face Dr. Girlfriend. She smiled slyly. "Remember how I said he was into gadgets?" After pausing for dramatic effect, she said, "I gave them a rocket and helped them escape."
"Why, aren't you a little Oskar Schindler."
"With better hair, I hope."
The two women laughed, Dr. Girlfriend straight from her diaphragm. It seemed like the first time she'd laughed in…gosh, weeks. The lady motioned to the bartender for a refill on Dr. Girlfriend's appletini." "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"Dr. Girlfriend."
"You can call me Mirage." The lady held out her hand for Dr. Girlfriend to shake. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this."
"Annoying roommate," she shrugged. She straightened her posture and relaxed her shoulders, tilting her head at what she believed was a sassy angle. "You know, I really admire your attitude."
"Well, I have to laugh." Mirage leaned against the bar. "Do you know how much I would cry if I didn't?"
The bartender placed Dr. Girlfriend's appletini on the bar next to her. "I think this calls for a toast," she said picking the glass up by the stem.
"Cheers, darling," Mirage purred as their glasses clinked.
"You know," Dr. Girlfriend said, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."