FicWad

I could see her in my mind, curled up on the passenger seat of my car. She had taken off the coat, tossing it onto the floorboard beneath her in a heap. Her bare skin glowed yellowish under the lights of the city, and the various thin red strings shimmered on her hips and shoulders. She kept on the heels, though.
I loved those fucking shoes.
She probably didn't remember, but they were the ones we had met in, almost six months ago now. Red and platform, those were the shoes that had stamped out the first cigarette I'd ever given her.
Last night, though, they had been sitting on the seat. She'd given me a good talking to on the way back to the apartment.
"Izzy, I really don't get it. What's the damn point?"
I had resisted rolling my eyes, wishing she'd stop grilling me. "You saw the man, Jen. I couldn't just leave him on withdrawal like that. Why's it matter so much, girl?"
She'd sat up then, glancing at me. Her hair looked even redder than usual under the traffic light.
“It matters because I wanna know why you do it.”

I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling fan. It was on, going around and around and around.
Spinning, spinning, spinning.
It was how my mind had felt since last night. I held my guitar against my stomach, thinking about it, wonder where the hell she’d disappeared to. I’d woken up hung-over at eleven, and she’d been gone.
I didn’t get it. I really didn’t. She could be such a spitfire. All I wanted was to stop talking sometimes and just let things be. But at the same time, she wasn’t like other women. All my other girlfriends had loved it when I’d sold. It meant free smack for them, and easy sex for me. It had worked just fine in the past.
And with the rest of them, whenever we’d had a fight, they’d leave me cold in bed. I’d usually just put on my boots again and go out on the strip, find some woman who was easy pussy, and go home with her. It wasn’t like I ever planned on cheating. It was just what happened when I was at odds with whatever girlfriend I had at the time. As far as I was concerned, it was their fault for giving me a chance. Waiting around wasn’t my style.
But with Jen, it was different. I squeezed my eyes shut, recalling the late hours of last night. When we fought…
When we fought, we had some of the hottest sex I’d ever experienced.
Why was that? I didn’t know. She was such a firecracker when she got set off, and it showed in bed. What I didn’t understand was why she continued to give it to me good even when she was incensed AT me. She was just smart enough to not give me a chance to go off and find somebody else.
Yeah, with Jen it was different.
I had been in the same position for the last half hour, guitar sitting on my stomach and watching the ceiling fan spinning around.
Spinning, spinning, spinning.
I plucked resentfully at the strings. I felt like I had been stuck in neutral since last night, thinking about what we’d said. I’d known when I did the deal that she wasn’t going to like it, because she never did. But I didn’t expect her to get worked up over one exchange. I had tried to slow down on it for her, I really had. Why did I changing for her, anyways? I sighed, staring at the lightbulb.
I had changed because that was how you kept people. But clearly, it wasn’t enough. I glanced at the clock: four in the afternoon. She’d been gone since before I woke up. If she wasn’t back by ten after, I was out of here.
Jesus, what place was good enough to fuck around for four hours? I’d tried to interrogate Steven, but he’d slid out of the house and avoided my questions. With a bag of cocaine, no less.
I’d sold coke myself couple times. I sat up, tugging my guitar upright, remembering for a second back when I’d first come to L.A., back when drug deals were how I made my living. If Jen thought hawking one packet of shot per show was bad, I don’t know what she would have done in the early days. I had sold pot, coke, and speed. I had done all of it, too.
Slowly, unconsciously, words started forming in my head. Staring at spot on the floor, I pieced what would become a verse together before scrambling for something to write with.
“Don’t know why I’m here. . . Living on the run for so long, I gotta collect. . . Double talkin’ jive, get the money, motherfucker. I got no more patience.”
I scribbled a couple of disjointed phrases on the back of a brown grocery bag before grabbing my electric and plugging in. I knew already that if this was gonna be a song, it would have to be fast, gritty, and dirty. Like the streets, like that alley that I had said I would trade the hustling crowds for.
E. Strumming the strings hard and fast, I tried to imagine how Steven’s set would sound with it. That swing was going to be a problem, but I was pretty sure we could work on it.
I found myself angrily thinking about that stupid argument, about the one measly fuckin’ deal I’d done at the show. It was the stupidest fuckin’ thing to fight over. I put my head down, pounding away at my guitar, finding myself muttering improv to the hammering chords about deals I remembered from back when I was in deep.
“Back in town, all new friends, saying how you been. . .”
C.
“Fucked up, and outta place. . . that’s how I felt back then.”
E.
“Double talkin’ jive, get the money motherfucker. . . I got no more patience.”
You say you don’t have it?
“Lies. . .”
I cut off the sound with my hand abruptly, setting my guitar down on the pillow. This was definitely worth working on. I scribbled in the chord changes before glancing at the clock again. 4:15.
Shoving my feet into my boots, I tugged on one of my button ups. I did the bottom button, wishing for a second that there was somebody here to block my hand, trail their long fingers down my stomach. Wish me good luck.
I shook my head, almost disgusted with myself. No fucking way. I didn’t need that. In all honesty, I liked being alone. Still, I thought, reaching for my hat, it would have been nice.
Christ, what was happening to me? I would have hated that idea six months ago.
But with Jen. . .
Yeah, with Jen, it was different.
But God only knew where the hell she’d gone.
I could have torn my hair out in frustration. I needed to stop thinking, stop analyzing, and stop the endless cycle of my mind.
Spinning, spinning, spinning.
I lit a cigarette before striding toward the door, flinging it open. It would be five in half an hour. There’d be places open, girls out, fights happening. Damn, I could use a fight. And by tonight, I’d be gone enough to stop the spinning, stop the thinking. I needed to get my mind off her and everything else.
It just shouldn’t have been that goddamn complicated.
I slammed the door to the apartment, OUR apartment.
It’d been our apartment for almost two months now.
Damn, take a brown-eyed stripper home a couple times, and next thing you know, you’re asking her to move in with you. How’d it happened? I had no fucking clue.
I straddled the bike in favor of my Mercury, revving the engine. I slammed the stand up and put my head down, roaring out of the driveway.
I had a train to catch.