"Morning." Not, "Hey, Twiggs!," or even clarification of the morning being a "good morning," just the breif, stiff greeting of two guys who had one-night stands and have sore backs from making love in cheap, faux-leather car seats that somehow were far more comfortable the previous night. I'm not in the mood for the emotional breakdown shit I'd done the other day, and crumbling wasn't in my agenda. I had a full schedule, consisting of walking around downtown, shopping, and possibly getting my hands on some speed... I grabbed my cellphone off of the table and tipped my head at him in recognition, then went to the restroom, only to find it locked. After jiggling the handle for about thirty seconds, I kicked at the chipping, off-white pinewood door, and Pogo's loud, obnoxiously happy (at that moment, anyone happy could quite possibley obnoxious) voice called back, "Hey! Quit it. I'm cleaning up for the ladies!" A muffled, overly effeminate giggle confirmed to me that he was in fact cleaning up with the ladies. "Oh, fuck you," I spat, exasperated already and trying to avoid getting myself into a worse mood. I grabbed the jacket I'd shrugged off and thrown to the floor the night before and reached in the lefthand pocket to find a favorite pocket knife, then used it to pry open the lock on the door and humiliate not two, but three nude figures protected only by the steam of hot shower water and, if they'd risk it, a nearby towel that had slipped down to the damp tiles beneath the towel rack. Humiliation really isn't the priority here, but I can't say I'm complaining. Over Pogo's protesting rants and threats, I hum and lather on an edge of black eyeliner around each eye, apply some soft, lavender eye shadow, and put my lashes on, just in case my latter goal leads me to more glamorous places, though I doubt it, in this grimey, run down city. Some finishing swipes of gloss end my invasion of my bandmate's lucky three-person party, and I make a blatant point to give my regards and grattitude as I make my exit, much to the annoyance of those invited. "Where're you going?" Manson asks me as he turns the corner, genuinely curious, while I sit, crisscross, skimming through the clothes stuffed into one of my suitcases. I tell him that I'm going out, and that I may not be back until late tonight, and some emotion, blazing bright in the distance of his glare, sets off like small, intense explosions behind the miscolored frosted glass. I decide it's best I don't try to read into it too much, and leave it to die down, not turning back as I pull out a pair of black, thigh-hugging vinyl pants and a pink t-shirt with some saying I didn't read due to the unsettling heat radiating from the two orbs seething their attention like two scorching lasers echoing their irritance into the back of my head. "Oh, okay. Great. I think I'll go out too, actually...," he says nonchalantly, and I'm nearly certain that I know him enough to know that he wasn't thinking of it until just now. He storms off into the other room and I stand there a moment, baffled and intrigued and far too overly enthusiastic to not egg his bizarre behavior on.
"Great," I agree in singsong voice, then prod, " Are you going out alone?"
He stays there for a second, caught in indecision, then stares at me straight on and answers me bluntly, "Yes, I am, but by the end of tonight, I won't be alone." He grabs a shirt off of the back of a nearby chair and goes off into his room, and I can't help but smile once he's gone. He cares. He actually cares. Tonight, I muse with an unusual flare of sauciness, he will come back alone. Maybe he'll go out, sign some shit, dance with some drunken, kiss up wannabe-groupies, but when the night's over, he'll be here alone, and I'll be the only reason he isn't.
I tug my legs into my snug-fitting thigh-concealers, and pull the t-shirt that I now know reads, "Daddy's Girl" on the front over my head. I feel much better than I did when I woke up, and today may very well turn out to be the begining of the night of my life... Actually, I've had several "nights of my life," but this one will certainly stand out the most if my foresight is leading me correctly towards the events yet to arrive. I shove my feet into my combats and pull on the strings, tossing them and crossing them this way and that until they are both double knotted in awkwardly looped bows, then grab a bottle of water from the fridge and walk out the front door. Downtown, here I come.
