The noise of the city became too much for my feeble attempt at concentration. I picked up The Diary of Nobody from resting on the balcony ledge, took another drag of my Marlboro, and then entered the apartment in Greenwich Village. Inside my mother stared lazily into her wine glass as soft classical music played in the background.
This was her new way of coping. She had been through a lot of rough things in her life, but nothing as heartbreaking as finalizing a divorce. Especially since the divorce was her fault.
I walked straight past her and into my bedroom with the cigarette still pasted to my fingers, not that she seemed to neither notice nor care. The old Renée would have had a near brain aneurysm at the sight of a cigarette, let alone her daughter smoking one. They do say separation changes souls though.
I discarded the oversized sweatshirt and Vans for more appropriate attire for tonight's affairs. Once satisfied, I stepped out my window and into the warm heat of New York City at night.
My favorite thing about New York was the fact that I knew no one when I walked the streets. No one knew me, and aside from the occasional creepy egotistic men, no one wanted to know me. I liked the fact that here, I was just another girl, in another black dress, on her way to nothing in particular. It gave the sense of freedom, the sense that I could be anyone I wanted to be for the night.
That night of July3rd, I landed in a bar not too far from home. The length of my six inch heels were catching up to me, and I knew if I didn't sit down soon I'd be in no mood for physical activity later that night.
I sat down near the stage and watched a particular dancer for a while. She was quite small and had short hair to match her pixie-like stature. Her moves were quick and precise, much to my pleasure, not like the other women sloppily hanging from their metal poles.
"Her name is Alice. She's a beauty isn't she?"
The rough voice belonged to the man sitting beside my table. I looked over to see him and his company eyeing my legs graciously. I was not in the disposition to go home with a pair of middle aged men that night, but I decided any conversation would do.
I picked up my glass of gin and joined them at their booth, extremely conscious of their wandering eyes.
"Do you own the bar," I asked in a false French accent, disguising myself as Isabella for the night, the mature succubus sex demon from France.
The two men shook their head no, but from their chuckles it implied they were there often enough that they deserved to.
"We work with many of the women outside of here though," said the second man who resembled a man from "The Godfather".
I shook my head like I understood and continued uneventful conversation with the two possible pimps. Later, I fucked them both in the bathroom.
I have received my hypocrisy from my mother. I always claimed before a few drinks that the guy in front of me wasn't worth sexual relations with, but always ended up somehow fucking them the next hour. Renee was the same way. She always claimed she was going to love my father forever, but then she ended up sleeping with his coworker. Scratch that, a multitude of his coworkers. The thing that differentiates us though is the fact that she always feels guilty, I on the other hand, do not.