Julia's Night Out

Julie waits by the door; stares around the bar; wonders what to tell Greg the youth who’d talked to her at the bar some hours ago; whether she ought to tell him or not at this early stage or to leave it until things move on a bit. Cass had gone off with Greg’s mate, the tall youth with the spots and an earring hanging from his ear like a piece of snot. Felicity hadn’t come with them, she’d said she was having a bad week of it; she’d only spoil the fun what with her running to the toilet every damned minute or so; besides she wanted to catch up on her studies.

He’s a long time, she muses, breathing the dense air, the heady smell of bodies too close together; drink; hot heat; perspiration; a sense that maybe she herself needed to go and pee before he came out; maybe she ought to wait in case he thought she’d gone off and dumped him like so much garbage, so she waits, holding her hands in front of her groin as if she were guarding the hidden treasure. The thought makes her laugh to herself; she smiles. The thought would not have amused Ryan and she knows that; is glad she can smile now for all that.

Greg comes out; takes her hand; puts on a smile like it fits him like a cheap suit.

- I’ve got to go, Julia says, releasing his hand, moving towards the toilets some metres away; giving him a smile; a wave of her hand.

- Sure, Greg says, watching her go; seeing the backside wiggle, her hips swaying side to side as if in dance.

She sits in the cubicle of the toilet; stares at the door which has writing in red ink about something she doesn’t want to know; so looks away; gazes at the walls which are an off white; seem dirty has if people had wiped their finger down it as they sat and brooded or mused on their plight or wishes.

How far should I go with him? she muses, holding her elbows on her knees, her hands in prayer like mode. She doesn’t feel up to saying things just yet; doesn’t want to go down any path that could lead to awkwardness; not just yet; not with him. She looks down at her hands, which are joined together as if she were praying and unjoins them and lowers her skirt over her knees and sighs.

What if he wants to go further? What then? Wrong week. Tell him that. Sorry can’t. One of those weeks. He’d blush and so would she. She knows she would; lies always make her feel unreal; a fraud. Years of that. God no.

She sniffs. The air is rank. The mixture of scent, soap and human waste; the odour of too much drink; puke maybe, she muses, closing her eyes trying to imagine Greg’s reaction if she’d told him about Ryan; her and things; she can’t, not yet. Too soon, too uncertain. He might turn on her; hit her; punch her; bruise her. No, no, she won’t, she says inwardly, keeping the words inside, not letting them escape.

She opens her eyes; stares at the door again; feels empty and hollow, as if she’d emptied all; every ounce of herself down the bowl. He’ll be waiting expectantly; thinking he’s on to a good thing; hoping to get down to it as soon as a place is found or some dark corner of what not she doesn’t want to imagine. She wants to be home in her room safe; secluded; away from the dangers of the world; its cruelty and hurt; wants to be near her mother; her dressing table mirror; the face she looks at for hours on end talking about things; about herself; where she feels happy and safe.

She rises; arranges her clothes; goes out; washes her hands; peers at her face in the large mirror; licks her finger; pushes it across her eyebrows. She’ll tell him it’s the wrong week; put on a sad face, as if disappointed; maybe next time, if he wants to, but not if I can help it, she muses darkly, turning from the mirror and going out the door.

She climbs the stairs to her room after having spoken to her mother in the lounge and been ignored by her father who made a point of staring at the TV extra hard. She’d hope he’d have come round to the fact that Ryan was gone forever and she Julia his daughter was there in his place. Ad infinitum. Forever. Until death does. Us depart. But he hadn’t; he ignored her as if she were a stranger who had entered the room and was of no concern of his. Damn him; let him sink in his dark pool of regrets; his ill moods and ignorance.

She enters her room, closes the door, and leans against it as if other were trying to enter after her. She closes her eyes; tries to push Greg’s face from her mind; empty the smell of him from her nostrils. He’d not been happy about the wrong week phrase; not really believed her, as if he wanted her to prove it to him; and there was that beery smell about him; and his eyes were too close together, dark and peering. She opens her eyes; takes off her coat; goes and sits at the dressing table; peers at the face in the mirror. She wonders what Greg would have made of it if she’d let him go down that road he wanted to go down; what he would have done if she had told him about her operation; about Ryan and her past. She takes of her red top; stares at her breasts; the blonde hair now all messed up and untidy. He’d touched her breasts; put his hands there expectantly. They’ve passed the test; Ryan is dead. Julia lives.

- THE END -