jupiter wylde

Work was going by so slowly, with the bleach blonde demi-goddess cheerleaders coming in and begging for the latest in denim and cotton and silk. Their colored contacted eyes seem to beg "make me beautiful, make me wanted." They left with armfuls of jewel toned blouses and denim that would cling to their legs in lines of blue, shades of blue. Sky blue, Sea blue. The color of the night sky just after the sun sets and your eyes are adjusting to the light pollution.

Jupiter just stood in the dressing room, smiling at the young ones, and nodding to the older ones, not focused, giving them all what they wanted to hear, to see.

"Yes, that top does look good on you, it fits very well." 

"Yes that color does bring out your eyes." 

"I'd go with the black one, it's more versatile, see if you wear it with one of these head scarves and a pair of these skinny jeans it's a very trendy casual look, or you could pair it with these slacks and one or two of these necklaces....yeah, I'll take them up to the register for you."

When she leaves it's dark, and the wind pulls at her face, warm and summery. She thinks of just getting into her car and skipping the party, just driving, anywhere. She stops for a moment, contemplating the ocean, then she shakes her head. She's promised to be at the party. 

She makes her way across the dark parking lot towards the supermarket, to buy the Jack Daniels and the cookies she promised to bring. She regrets it momentarily, this choice to conform instead of take herself to the sea and fall into the sand. Then she shakes her head and mumbles to herself, walking into the cold night lit store.

The bottle of Jack Daniel's fits into her hand, cool and promising oblivion, soon, soon. She smiles at the woman at the check out, who is elderly, silver haired. The woman scrutinizes her, demands to see her I.D. in a sharp voice, suspicious. She sells her the bottle, and then her money is gone, she's broke again, but she has the deep amber liquid and it's all she cares about for the moment.
Her phone unfolds in her hand, she presses the buttons, almost idly, she's lying to herself, and she knows it when she feels the hint of anticipation when it buzzes in her palm a few moments later.
Jupiter slides back into her car and rolls down all the windows. She drives fast, she closes her eyes. With the windows down and the wind in her face she can almost imagine herself away from here.
She arrives at the party and her friends converge with laughter and hugs and questions, she answers with a smile and a laugh in her voice.

“Jupiter!” They call her name, and she steps among them, to feel accepted.

The cookies are proffered and accepted and eaten, while she laughs and hugs the people she knows and introduces herself to those she doesn't. There is already that tangible vibration through the house, the alcohol and the pot she smells on her friend's jacket. She takes her cup into the kitchen and mixes a drink, strong. She sees a friend, a face, a half smile before she kisses his cheek and thanks him for the invite.

Her phone keeps buzzing, and her body keeps buzzing. Her drink is almost gone when she pours the rest of the Jack in it, another shot and a half. Someone hands her the cola bottle, says she should probably add some more Coke to the drink, she smiles and does so, and tilts the drink back. It's gone. Someone mixes another, orange juice and vodka, half a glass, he looks at her with a half raised eyebrow, and she shrugs, grins. She's already more than half gone, and then she is gone and she is floating around the party listening to the conversations between people she knows and doesn't know.

On the patio she watches the friends of friends inhale slow and exhale slow, and she smells the sweet smoke but rejects it when it comes to her. She takes an offered cigarette and smokes it, slow, barely inhaling, watching the starless sky and wondering how long it would take to get to Joshua Tree.

She types words into her phone, says what she is thinking, doesn't care, cares too much.

The phone is dying, starting to buzz plaintively instead of promisingly, and she takes it out to her car, leaves the empty drink cup. She stares out the window and feels the liquor in her veins, the smooth soft light and the side to side of her head as the world slides around and she smiles at the missing stars.

When he appears on the horizon, comes and stands by her open window, sober and worried, she smiles at him, best friend and pseudo brother. He leans against the car hood. He shakes his head at her when she holds up the phone, the reason for being in the car alone, something far more captivating than an open bottle of liquor. He disapproves, unsure of her choices, but is ready to decline with her this night. She sees it in his eyes that he wants to fall too, wants to walk through the door of the party full of people he doesn't know and taste something bitter and kiss someone beautiful. She doesn't let him, because if he starts to fade into this nether world with her, there will be no one left to pull them back out. 

She is selfish, she wants to drown alone.

She speaks, words of religion, the lack of religion. She tells him she isn't who he thinks she is, and watches the worry on his face fan out, fingers of doubt around him. “Do I believe in God because I believe in God or because it's all i've ever been taught? My father believes in God because he loves God.....do i only believe in God because i love my father?”

He shakes his head as she winds down, talking about masks and personae and not wanting to have to care what people think. She hears her voice quiver when she says something about her father, and she closes her eyes and rests her head against the door frame. A few moments later, she hears his voice, 

“i'm leaving. I'll see you later.” 

He is walking away, not looking back, leaving her drunk and verbose, and alone. He is running from the person she is becoming, afraid to look into her eyes and see that it is who she has always been. She thinks she says she loves him, but is unsure what is spoken and what is thought.

It's cold in the car now, and it's dark and she's suddenly too alone. It's 2 AM, the hour of subtly wounding loneliness, an hour that haunts and suppresses, and all at once, despite the warmth of the liquor that is her buoy, she feels the cold of the night through the open window and when the phone buzzes in her hand and she tells it softly, “I just need to be held.”

And then he's on his way and she's smiling, that quickly, that easy shift in this mentality of...she doesn't even know.

But he's there suddenly, the dark and the light all blended together as she watches him, cautious, not cautious. She wants him in her arms so she takes him in her arms and she is warm. He is a pseudo rock god, crescendo in a quiet room, a dangerous animal cornered in a cage that is much to small.

She is falling into him and ignoring the rest of the world, wanting only to forget for a few fleeting moments the weight of that world, the weight of expectations. The party has already faded, people leaving in pairs and groups and alone. She doesn't care, hardly notices.

She doesn't believe his eyes, but has no doubts as his lips meet hers, in the quiet, in the silence, in the cold. 

She's a mess, physical, emotional. 

She sinks into his hands and mouth and arms and body and closes her eyes and doesn't deny him anything but the one thing she can give to no one. 

She doesn't love him, the thought doesn't even cross her mind to give in. 

She lets him in, but not enough to consume, only enough to burn. She lets his fingers burn holes in her skin, test her limits, but doesn't succumb. She smiles into his smile. It feels natural, this, the lack of hesitation, the warmth, the laughter that keeps bubbling out of her unexpectedly. She is content to be used, content to be a comfort, whatever comfort she can offer, she gives. She hesitates, inexperienced, sudden uncertainty fogging her motions until he takes her, gentle, guiding.

It's daylight when she breaks the surface, takes a breath. His voice murmurs in her ear, telling her to go home, the very last place to she wants to be. She stalls, she evades, and then finally listens. She stands and brushes her hands over her body, erasing the evidence of this exploitation, this exploration. 

When he asks to see her again, she doesn't bother to suppress the reaction, the characteristic roll of her eyes, the disbelief, and the annoyance at herself for wanting to believe this hint of promise. 

He responds, wounded voice, and she wants too desperately to believe. She tries to console, to bend the break, but she knows it's too late.

She breaks a rule and says more than she means to say, then blames it on the alcohol, despite the fact that the traces of it left have little effect now. 

She has mastered the art of lying to herself.

She watches him walk away, not looking back. She climbs into her car, still cold, still empty. She sits quietly for a few minutes, pretending to let the engine heat, closing her eyes and marking each image, each snapshot. 

She files the night away in her mind, under “Transitions.” 

She smiles.

She drives home.