No Time Like Now (Lesbian)

Chapter Eighteen

The stool's higher up than I remember. The radio station alternates between rock and Christmas music, which I never knew would sound so disoriented. My socks are sliding down my calves as if they're taking the day off from being knee-high. And the make-up's itchy from the extra three layers I put on, one for each year to my age.

The pain I have to go through for a little bit of relief.

In no time the bartender finishes serving a truck driver and comes over to me. "What're you interested in?" he asks.

Glancing toward the beer fountain, I casually ask for the one with the red handle. He takes the time to fill a glass, and then plops it down in front of me. Thanking him, I place it on the coaster nearby. 

The law I originally wanted to break before coming into yet another bar was to find the nearest train tracks, steal a boxcar, bring it back and live in it. I did enough research to pull it off, too. With the lack of solidarity in town and the boxcar's amazingly big size, however, there's no way in hell I could pull it off. 

Instead, I'm taking some dude's advice from way back when, with an addition: "Drink all your problems away. And then figure out what the hell you're gonna do with the problems." Hopefully I can think of something to tell Mr. Timmons about the call.

I take sips of my choice of poison as I run through whatever thought comes up. The charity ball I'm going to on Saturday. (You can guess why I'm going.) The checkpoint my class has to get to before we go on break, which isn't only whatever degree we want to achieve but also how we were gonna pay for it. The cool art Ikra texted me for her tattoos, which I'll admit were better than I expected.

I must have exhaled the wrong way or something; my thoughts stop running, and I'm... 

Just... 

Here. 

Nothing special. 

Nothing for me to look forward to. 

Might as well have been a puppet that isn't serving a purpose right now. Whatever that purpose would be: for Mom, for Timmons, for my friends. 

When was the last time I felt like this? Have I ever felt like this? It feels new... but somehow familiar.

Eventually my glass becomes empty, and the bartender refills it. Slowly breaking out of whatever just happened, I take the time to look around me, thanking him for the refill at the same time.

For a Thursday a week before Christmas, I expect to see only a couple patrons here and there. A small group of women huddle around a table, appearing to be in a bad argument between them all. I hear snippets of 'job-searching' and 'damned one-percenters'.

Turning back into my zone, I keep the beer close to me. I gotta admit it tastes better than I hear from Mike in math, when he keeps buffing his 'party boy' reputation with exaggerated bullshit. Who would ever want to play vodka pong?

I become a lot more normal when I hear a familiar voice near the entrance. I don't look. My head turns as Ikra struggles to get on the stool. (Glad to know I'm not the only one.) She quickly orders a fancy drink.

"So I need some help," she starts, playing with her straw as soon as she gets it.

I stare at her, my mouth open in confusion. "How the fuck did you find me?" 

"I turned on your tracker in your phone," she reveals oh so casually.

"What?!"

"What? It's an app," Ikra justifies. "Didn't you notice the little yellow button with the two people that just appeared on your phone one day?"

I did. I chalked it up to downloading the first yellow app I saw instead of looking for Snapchat when I stayed up all night to see if I could.

"I'm changing my password. Don't bother asking for the new one," I inform her. Don't want to change the subject, but I do it to avoid a potential blow-up from either of us for privacy invasion. "What kind of help do you need?"

Clearing her throat, she reaches into the top of her soft-pink dress and pulls out her phone. She taps on some keys before handing it to me. The screen's open to several Chrome tabs, all labeled with 'tattoo' somewhere in the name.

I thumb through each one before saying, "You seem to know what you're doing."

"No I don't. None of them I looked up are even close to us," she explains. "The nearest tattoo parlor is the kind that's in the basement, and she's only good at the simple ones."

"She could be up to the challenge," I reason. "Also, I just remembered you're not eighteen yet."

"'Yet' being the key word," she points out. "Don't worry about the ID situation; I'm making an appointment right after my birthday in January."

Her reasoning behind could have been because she doesn't want to go through extra steps just to get inked sooner. I was relieved all the same. The paranoia of us getting caught crept into my dreams a couple times. 

Not a pleasant way to start my mornings.

"Okay, let's try this," I mutter to myself, opening a new tab. A quick use of my research skills amazes Ikra -- complete with her jaw slightly dropped -- as I pull up several different tattoo parlors.

"The closest one is in a city about thirty miles away from us," I apologize, "but from what I see, the price is in your range, and they make damn sure they're clean with the needles and all that."

"How do you know they're clean?" Ikra asks.

"There's a tab on their website dedicated to naming all the diseases and infections you can get from shoddy tattoo work." I hand the phone back over. "Not the best idea to show pictures of them, but how many shady businesses are gonna tell anyone about the risks and consequences?"

"That's a good point." Ikra looks at the phone before putting it back in Boobtopia. "Thanks."

"No prob."

We both sit quietly with our drinks. I order another beer before paying my tab. Now I'm waiting until my glass is empty before considering leaving.

"So..." Ikra starts, "What do you think about Aspen?"

"She's good at her job," I answer.

She rolls her eyes. "I get that. I mean, why with the number? Jeremiah and I gave you shit about it but you didn't really tell us."

"Probably because you were giving me shit about it," I snort.

She sighs. "You want me to apologize or something?"

"Yes, in the form of Tetris socks."

Ikra shakes her head in disbelief. "Let me guess, knee-high?"

"Yep."

She snaps her fingers. "Okay, done. Now, Aspen?"

Drinking the beer down by half, I wait. The buzz started its little dance inside me five minutes ago, but I need to make sure I'm not all of the sudden gonna throw up. 

I burp. Good enough.

"She's cool," I say truthfully. "I've asked her questions I've asked you and Jeremiah, and I get bizarre answers. And she collects coasters, which I still need to ask her about."

Ikra nods, crossing a leg over the other. "Yeah, I see how it is. You got sick of your friends, so you need a new friend to talk to." She's saying this with a joking smile, so it's not like she's hurt or anything like that.

"Exactly!" I joke back.

There's no way I'm telling her about the feelings I'm getting every time Aspen texts or every time I replay any of our conversations. Not that I'm being a dick and purposefully leaving her out of my life. I'll tell her eventually, when my infatuation ends and I go back to normal.

But right now, I'm not confident enough to lay it down as fact. My friends would turn it into an inside joke for the next five years.