She hasn't had a structured thought go through her head for almost an hour. She can only string thoughts together now because she's gasping for air in the overchilled and sterile ladies' room. Breathing was easier out there, driven by the rhythm, shimmering and pounding and grinding against him.
"So what do you think?" Lisa asks.
"Think?" She looks distractedly at the door.
"You gonna go home with him, or what?"
"Go home?"
"C'mon - you want him. It's obvious."
She shakes her head. Sweat flies off her, and splashes into the sink.
"Fuck home. I'm never leaving that dance floor."
Not Fade Away
I've survived.
Somehow, I've made it back from the breakup, to bare functionality. I've fled Marin County and rented this three-room flat on Russian Hill.
I'm standing in the bedroom, miserable, unwilling. The double bed looks the size of Antarctica, and about as cold. So long, since I've slept alone.
My new neighbour's Alfa pulls up, radio blaring. I hear a snatch of something familiar, resolving into a lyric: no sweeping exits or offstage lines could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind....
And I'm suddenly scrabbling insanely through the bathroom cabinet, looking for razors, pills, anything to shut out the music.
I have a new chunk on the Gravekeeper story. Anyone up for a beta?
Yes'm, please send it my way.
Read and backflung. Rubbing hands in anticipation. It's getting good!
Need any more betas, deb?
OK. Will try to get to as soon as I finish a complete rewrite of the Lucy synopsis based on suggestions from writers group tonight. (Want to see that, once it's done?)
Of course. And there's no rush on mine; I'm likely going to get another big chunk done tomorrow, and my gut tells me this one is flowing very smoothly.
Which is amazing, since my brain is tapioca and I fel very vague and dithery.
