Friday, 15 January 2016

Ruffles and Rages.

And don't deny me
No baby now, don't deny me
And darlin' don't be afraid
The dress was Alexander McQueen, a similar one to the one I adored in Nordstrom over the holidays. Something I can wear more often. I can't wear a Valentino to dinner, after all. It's a little over the top, even for me.

(Fun fact: I once showed up to dinner in a bright pink leotard and full face paint.

Actually I showed up like that every night that I didn't attend the meal in a black tutu and halter top, also with full face paint.

Welcome to the show. Dinner break was a seventeen-minute affair between the afternoon and evening shows. Once the regiment of the circus was over the freak show was a languid affair with dinner falling sometime between midnight and morning, after we had run out of whiskey, cigarettes and stories to tell. Out of drugs to do. Out of life to live.)

Except I probably wouldn't eat in this dress. It's too fancy. I would need a bib. A poncho. Maybe a full drop sheet. But it's beautiful nonetheless and it fits so perfectly it just confirms that he is the devil. He knows my body better than I do. I looked at the size and was surprised. This is my size? 

In McQueen it is, he says, though I've already had it altered for you for length.

Oh. Thank you. 

Just wear it until the spring and enjoy it. 

It's a rental?

No, then you get a different one. Then eventually you have enough nice things that you can rotate. 

I have nice things. 

Nicer things then. 

I dropped the subject. We had a toast to successful trips and he mentioned letting Joel go as his usefulness here has been exceeded. I asked if it was because Joel rarely agrees with Caleb. He smiled tightly and said maybe, or maybe Joel brings up more pain than I need anymore.

He's trying to fix me. 

Maybe he's simply making things worse for you. 

No pain, no gain. 

Bridget, sometimes it's good to bury the past. You did better when you did that. Bottom line. Watch your last game this weekend and throw a party, he'll be leaving next week. 

To do what?

That's up to him. He knew this would be month to month. 

Then I get two weeks more and then he can leave. 

Fine. But if you get worse I'm holding him responsible. 

Like he holds you responsible for the same thing?

He said nothing, taking a sip of his whiskey and looking out at the water. But I hit bone, I'm sure of it.