Grey Gods

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Loves Bites

Lana:

It's hard to concentrate over the next few days.

I exercise to sweat out the brain fog (drugs), but it casts its shadow over my focus like a layer of grime. I rewrote my essay a dozen times. I would spend hours perfecting it, and then I'd scrap it and try something else, wanting to find the best way to express my interest in my major.

I really do love communications.

It's an interdisciplinary major that touches on subjects I love like sociology and psychology, but sometimes I wonder if doing hair for the rest of my life will fulfill me. Most of the time, I feel like I'm meant for something more purposeful. Grittier.

One of my favorite courses was Interpersonal Communication Skills, where I learned all about body language. Your arms and legs are the first types of nonverbal communication people tend to notice about you. If your arms are crossed, you may come off defensive. Finger tapping may make you appear nervous, and looking down, you appear weak or unconfident. Even micro-expressions – a facial expression that only lasts for a short moment – can result in someone very briefly revealing their true emotions and then concealing it with a false emotional reaction.

It's all so fascinating.

I think if I wasn't a hairdresser, I'd love to have a career in surveillance, where I could analyze people and gather information and make a difference in this world.

I write all this in my essay. The overall tone is self-aware, but still finding my path. I'm proud when I submit it Saturday night.

Sunday evening, me and Avaley have dinner at an Italian restaurant on South Alamo Street called Battalion. I told her all about my date with Angel over parmesan-herb crusted lamb chops and mocktails.

One thing I like about Avaley is she doesn't judge.

I expected maybe a little bit of judgement, but that's only because I'm still judging myself. Especially when I go into detail about doing ecstasy and how amazing it felt, but Avaley only smiled and asked me questions like: is he a good kisser? Is Saint okay? Did you get any sleep that night? Did you like smoking weed? Was he big?

But then came the one question I didn't want to hear.

He left before you woke up, and hasn't tried to talk to you sense?

I'd been so focused on my schoolwork; I didn't register it had been four days since I last saw Angel. He hasn't called or texted or come to my apartment.

Four days.

By Monday morning, day five, there's a wishy-washy anxiety in the center of my chest, sitting there like a boulder. All day, it feels like I can't catch my breath. And on top of that, I get my period. Why, universe? Why?

My anxiety crests around mid-afternoon, when I'm over-thinking every little thing about myself while simultaneously faking an entire personality for my clients. But it's taking a lot of energy that I don't have. I walk my three o'clock highlight to the front desk, an insufferable, chatty woman with too much lip filler, who insists on letting me know how much he despises her son's girlfriend, Tabitha. I'm trying my hardest to wrap up the conversation and pass her over to Emma so she can pay for her service, but she's one of those people that you just can't get away from. You know what I mean. We've all talked to someone like this, and if you haven't, you're lucky.

She has somehow launched into another story, an instance that preludes to what she was previously telling me about, and I want to rip my hair out.

My flimsy attention breaks off to someone entering the salon. A delivery man. He's carrying a giant glass vase of long-stemmed pink roses and brings them to the front desk.