Date Night

w/ Baby Girl

+++

This is how it begins.

You see, it’s all in the delivery. A tempered pitch. Targeted shifts of inflection to tones and a measured pacing.

With the proper deadpan delivery, a fatal diagnosis can be mistaken for flirting.

After all, it’s not what you say…

“I don’t know why you have to make it weird,” she scoffs.

It’s what they hear.

Never the type to offer authenticity, but ambitious enough to fake orgasms. Naturally, she assumes that matter is at the top of your bullet point To-Do list.

No doubt.

Right up there with making sweet, sweet love to that dilapidated meat grinder you found in a dumpster last week. You can empathize with her impending realization that vacant personality traits will not aid in the smooth transitioning from prostitute to trophy wife.

Vegas Escort to suburban soccer mom.

Entrepreneur to philanthropist.

Gerber in place of gangbangs.

A real Fairytale type ending, destined to be ruined by a public doxing, after a random Google search takes a fateful turn in an unfortunate direction.

Sometimes when you go down the rabbit hole, you don’t want to come back out.

Some things simply can’t be unseen. Though, in the end, most everything is forgotten. We will all be forgotten one day.

And hey, no judgement here. Odds are if you had a set of rockin’ cans, you’d be doing the same goddamned thing and you know it.

Your dignity skipped town a long time ago.

Pride is just a bunch of lions now.

We all sell a piece of ourselves in one manner or another.

We are all whores somehow. It’s just that some are more up front about it than others.

We pay for love, one way or the next.

Her fading looks mirror yours and for this, you despise her. Still, hate fucks beat the hell out of getting fucked by the world.

Perspective.

Practice gratitude.

Cuddling is an additional $50 for one episode of syndicated reruns with the mid-tier commercials. It being the Holiday season and all, these Hallmark shitshows make you part ways with the rent money and your appetite. She’ll pretend to care about you for a little more than the cost of an economy sedan, but without any upgrades or add-ons. Wanna feel like a real big shot, she’ll even look you in the eyes while dropping the L-Bomb, for power of attorney over your estate and next Spring’s Jimmy Choo pumps. Kashmir cream.

Mid-cut.

Size 6 W.

“…it’s not that you’re not invited,” she shrugs and takes one hand full of assorted prescriptions. The other hand grabs a used chopstick from the stagnant Shrimp Lo-mein and wipes it on your pillow. Crimson-tipped fingers now twirl raven hair up into her finest call-girl Samurai bun.

You wonder how much Bukake would cost, but remember that you have no friends. You then consider what you can pawn later so you can afford a new samurai sword and commit Seppuku.

You can feel her other phone vibrating beside you.

The trembling little Smart-Pimp was a Christmas present from yours truly, as was the knock-off handbag it is currently hiding in. Both were acquired from the same website that sold you Dyno Det-Cord and mercury-switches at a discounted rate for buying in bulk.

Make a mental note to cancel her plan tomorrow morning after roof recon.

You admire both the imitation Prada, and the glittery punch-line with tits that it normally dangles from, as they sparkle with deceit. Now, sprawled perpendicular beside one another across the still-made bed.

The pair exude wealth that is only skin deep.

Both are tacky and classless.

Each are as fabricated as their price tags, though neither has much resale value.

One can get familiar with being useless, while still managing to get used.

You can relate to the feeling of losing net worth just by waking up.

You also acknowledge the way she must resonate with that awkward redundancy an undertaker takes part in, when they apply cosmetics to a corpse.

“You know you’re my number one, Baby,” says the cadaver.

This is the part where she asks for more money.

This is on top of her standard hourly rate and in addition to the trio of $100 black chips she clumsily finagled from your khakis as you showered off her scent earlier. Hers, and that of some frat boy who must substitute off-brand insecticide in place of body spray.

Bold choice.

Questionable judgement all around, in all likelihood.

According to her, the frugal lad was naturally bestowed with some favorable genetics but not any kind of an inheritance.

Seems the lucky tyke might’ve been nicknamed Tripod in high school, but he also drove the family vehicle and not a new Mercedes.

Popular with the ladies for sure but humbled with the fiscal endowment of a baby-dill pickle that got harvested early and then left out in the elements to fester with shameful neglect.

Apparently, mediocre dick-downs and 20% tips are preferable over horse-cocks and high fives.

You can’t pay the bills with enthusiasm, after all.

“Kelly’s bachelorette party is Friday, I’m sorry I’m gonna miss your little get together, sugar plum.” says the fibber.

You’re going to be 35 on Friday.

You feel like your 12.

You look like the fucking Crypt Keeper, only with a rosier complexion, and a much better hairdo.

Almost time now. Wait for it…

“Ugh, I don’t want to stop this late at an ATM…?”

Right on cue.

You are nothing more than a dollar sign with a shallow pulse.

A cash cow with shitty credit.

An empty billfold to match your empty insides.

Now to herself in the mirror and into the speakerphone: “I’ll check, but HIGHLY doubt it…” Her reflection cuts through you first, and then shifts to the self slashing of twin jet black skidmarks beneath each eye lid, with the precision of a seasoned circus clown.

That makes two things you have in common. The other being a mutual appreciation of high powered narcotics.

Her other phone is still vibrating next to you. Now more akin to a rattlesnake warning reverberating through a nearly exhausted Xanax bottle.

Lay the bills on the bedside dresser, careful not to disturb the pile of white powder.

You can hear female voices on the other end of the phone snickering and referencing the ancient guy.

Sniff…

Tighten your fist, while its counterpart proceeds to charm the elusive Western Diamondback Schedule-4 controlled substance that seems to have taken up residence in her faux fashion accessory.

Check your hair in the blacked-out television screen.

Note the time on the wristwatch your father gave you, which is older than her, but far less expensive.

As if you had someplace to be.

One can never be missing if nobody misses them.

This one… she doesn’t even try to lie well, anymore. Except for when she tells you to have a good night.

“…EWWW!!!!” can be heard from the phone’s speaker as the collapsing door vacuum slams an exclamation point on your evening. You’re almost smitten with the charming callousness that makes her “I’m gonna get going now…” seem just as sincere as her, “You’re fucking sick.”

The fact of the matter is people will let you do just about anything to them except bore them.

Humans are capable of unthinkable feats of tolerance, providing they find it stimulating in one manner or another.

Or profitable.

The minute something shinier, or younger, or sexier, or wealthier, shows up, all the alleged steadfast and unwavering devotion is rendered innocuous.

The contract becomes null and void.

May we dance naked with roaring chainsaws while the world is reduced to ash around us. Live on Primetime. Lest we get ignored.

Anything.

Anything but forgotten.

Speak too softly, and your whispers forecast nothing more than a blurb for your impending eulogy.

One must scream themselves into existence.

Knock knock…

From the height, you can tell it’s not her coming back for the missing contents of her pill bottle, which are now starting to take effect.

No.

This person is much larger.

Finish pressing out the crease in your left sleeve, allowing enough time for the second round of the identical knocks.

Knock knock…

Hmm.

Male for sure, but not staff.

Security details use an abdominal level, three-thump Mag-Lite icebreaker as a segue, followed immediately by some unobtrusive inquiry into the noise complaint that they never received, because it was never placed.

Housekeeping on the other hand, gives zero fucks. They typically implement a frantic series of Morris codes type taps, rarely even bother verbalizing who they are, or what their intentions may be. That is, until they are halfway in the room already and are now found smack dab in your line of sight. Both now locked in direct eye contact as you consider your options of finishing or sheepishly darting for the towel.

Results may vary.

Mixed reviews between smiles, screams, and indifference.

So far.

The catch is that now if you finish it’s your fault, apparently.

Pfft.

Room service typically knocks at chest level with the rhythmic rat-at-tat-tat “…oh by the way sir, we added an additional 25% auto gratuity to your bill, bitch-slapping your Eggs Benedict into mediocrity. Thank you for choosing us for your stay sir, and please remember to go fuck yourself. On the house.”

No.

This is something else.

Him.

He found you.

But how?

You consider going headfirst through the panel, but remember what happened last time and find it distasteful to squander such a finely tuned hairdo.

Your left-hand darts for the bedside safe.

Your eyes never leaving the door.

Ok, guy... I’m your huckleberry. Let’s FUCKING do this.

You haven’t got all night, after all.

+++