This is the story that saw me interviewed on a BBC Radio Station! I have started writing a play that sees Diogenes, Charles Bukowski, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Tennessee Williams transported to one room.
At 7 am, I ate a bowl of cereal, but the milk had gone off, so I used water instead. The phone rang, so I ended up talking to Henry for an hour. Well, it was more that he rambled, and I gave the occasional grunt.
“Listen, Marley, you know I think you’re great. But, you’re so awkward.”
He didn’t have the guts to be honest with me, and I wish people would say what they mean.
“You’re beautiful but—”
“But, I’m not like her. That’s what you really want to say.”
I went to put the empty wine bottles in the bin, and that’s when I saw Juno. With her matted hair, her smudged lipstick, and her thick tights ripped up the crotch. Her eyeballs were a worse red than last time. Instead of giving a courteous wave, she stuck her middle finger up at me — always the classy broad.
Back inside, I pulled up my socks and grabbed my house keys from the table. The local neighbourhood cat followed me to the bus stop.
When I got to the pub, KP peanuts were squished into the carpet. I found Lucas, my boss, playing with himself in the back room. The Christmas tree wiggled in the background, the faint glint of tinsel bouncing off the metal. December was two months ago.
We didn’t open till 10 am, and guess who my first customer was. Juno. She ordered a Smirnoff ice.
“Are you sure? That’s the stuff I used to drink at sixteen.”
She looked up at me through wet lashes, the whites of her eyes burning blue, and proceeded to slide a fiver towards me. She took the change and stuffed it in her bra, pulling up her left boob to secure it.
The boss came out the back cleaning glasses and said:
“That girl always thinks she’s better than everyone, but she acts otherwise, so everyone falls for it.”
I simply nodded, excusing myself to the bathroom. I still had my swimming costume under my dress. The one with the frills that D said looked like a seashell, but we don’t talk about him. It’s funny how much of an impact we have on one another. I look at the packs of Silk Cut when I buy a lottery ticket, and I see him grinning as he flicks back the zippo.
For some weird reason, the memory of him burning me with a cigarette lingers far less than when we had sex underneath a tent at Glastonbury. He had one of those machines that make moons and stars shine on the ceiling. We were like Ross and Rachel if they were less cosmopolitan.
As the hours went by, Juno morphed into the girl I know. She greeted every male punter with a smoulder, bringing her black hair forward. I remember when we were kids, and her parents fed her ego. They’d tell every one of our neighbours about how she was just destined for greatness. So now, she walks around like her shit doesn’t stink, discarding anyone who she feels rivals her. I remember a conversation we had once. She told me that her sister was so pretty and everybody told her as much. I am not a violent person, but I wanted to smack her that day.
She managed to lure one of our regulars back to her place. As they opened the door, she turned and winked at me. Juno does weird things like that, and she loves the attention it garners.
I picked up a double cheeseburger on my way home, eating half of it before I got to the front door. I made a peach bellini and turned on the TV to see a group of singletons on an island, bronze and bare. I turned on a film instead.
It’s midnight, and I just saw Juno’s gentleman caller leave. I have to meet up with Henry tomorrow over breakfast. Not that I’ll eat much.
It’s Sunday, and I can’t remember anything. All I know is that I’m covered in cuts that splice like tiny centipedes, and there is blood all over the place. I feel like I should be sorry for something, but I don’t know what that is. Also, someone has ripped pages out of this diary.
Originally published by Punk Noir Magazine.