nullius creaturae expers

everyone learns to live with their sins

(but girl you wear yours like a brand new skin)

julian is talking, he's always talking, his voice an air-conditioner hum to your orange county ears, orange peels and swimming pools and tennis courts, pomegranate seeds and switchblades, heather's face in headlights, blue dusk -

something about virgil and dante, something about catholic repression and greek ecstasy and nero, nero and agrippina and virgil and dante, virgil as a benevolent hades, virgil as a tour guide, summer job in pasadena slow-dancing around the norton simon, dante with his unsure hands and the cadence of the inferno being almost like a love song, cameron says, and you want to shove him off the boat. virgil in pasadena. heather murmuring something snide and dead while you guide her through an orange grove, down a marble hall to make eyes at christ in the torchlight, heather's face in headlights, christ's peaceful gaze at the flame, julian's voice fading in and out and your eyes unfocused. charlotte's legs are miles long in her tennis skirt, smooth and corpse-white, the sharp scent of booze under her perfume. she uncrosses her legs and re-crosses at the knee, your eyes shadowed and your hair unbrushed and the first week of class wondering if julian was one of those professors, staring at charlotte, doe-like in her oxfords and pleated linen.

(your fear recurring and choking, familiar nerves making a home in the bones of your wrists long before you found charlotte and frances drunkenly clinging to each other like the to-be nurses you shared a dorm with -

the snakelike feeling that rises up in your chest when a man stares too long, when you walk around town with only cameron in your midst, cameron who weighs ninety pounds soaking wet and has barely an inch on his sister -

the fear that bun helped you drink away as she prattled on about the shit queers are getting in this country, what with reagan and the goddamn c-d-fucking-c, while your waiter stood on with a look like he could think of some shit he'd like to put the queers in this country through.)

you swallowed an oxy before class, like an idiot, like you've got a deathwish, but there's something sweet and motherly about the way judy hands you drugs for free as you're dragging your ass out of bed, a wink-and-nod and her saying more than asking, 'cramps?' as she hands the thing over. you think it was an oxy. heather in the blue twilight that doesn't exist here, heather in the summer heat with her broad shoulders bare and bangs damp with sweat. you're starting to sweat. charlotte smells like violets and cocktails, conjures up the ice-slick taste of martinis and salt, of skin and tennis courts and orange groves and badminton played by the glow of headlights, heather's face in headlights, heather's eyes flat and reflective in the spotlight-shine, like police helicopters, like a high school play, lady macbeth dripping blood like roadkill. you reach for your teacup and it clatters against the saucer, julian's voice rolling low and melodic and your nervous percussion, a sip of tea that burns your tongue, ash-bitter down your throat.

you aren't aware of class ending until charlotte nudges you, saying something with a joking lilt, your mind still filling in the gaps with a vague, fictional julian. she tips a flask into your tea and guides it back into your hand, her hands warm and inviting and your mouth dry. 'you alright?' she asks, and you do your best to nod.

''m high,' you say, and it's far-away and rasping but she gets the picture and lets you sit. you shut your eyes and visit christ crowned with thorns, heather by your side. she's holding your teacup and she's scrutinizing jesus in the torchlight, his expression sorrowful and serious, his eyes containing multitudes. her eyes containing multitudes. her eyes containing your sweaty palms and christ's bound wrists and the cheap marble beneath your feet faking dignity about as well as you do. old money. old manners. a tolerance for whiskey and an art museum so new you swore you could still smell fresh paint.

she's staring, considering, head tilted at a rigid angle, hair parted with a surgical certainty. virgil in pasadena. dante in vermont. the waves rocking and swelling and threatening to capsize; her head inclined at that brutal angle, something like a cliffside, the tide rising up beside you -

your hair isn't long enough that it needs to be held back, but charlotte tries anyway, her hands at the nape of your neck, cold fingers touching just-barely -

you're vomiting into a trashcan on the quad, the afternoon light coming golden and warm and your stomach heaving violently, the taste of booze and bile heavy in your mouth (when was your last meal? you can't taste anything but the sour remains of your oxy and last night's irish coffee) -

you brace yourself on the edge of the trashcan and pull back, drag a jacket-sleeve over your mouth, sun hot and charlotte and cameron looking at you with matching concern.

you end up in their apartment. cameron lights a cigarette in the armchair, watching you with the eyes of christ, his skin golden and his eyes glinting silver. 'you want one?' he asks, holds out the pack.

lucky strikes. heather's eyes in headlights. you take one. you don't know when you started smoking so much. cameron leans forward with his zippo to light it for you, fawn's eyes and gentle fae-hands. you can't tell if you're down yet.

they make lunch, the two of them like husband and wife stepping elegantly around each other in the tiny kitchen, in socks and shorts and charlotte's skirt swishing round her thighs. sandwiches and martinis and the jar of almost-stale olives resting on the coffee table, juice down charlotte's elegant fingers as she plucks one out and explains that they're nearly expired, found in the back of the fridge, trying to get rid of them. she feeds you one, or you imagine she does, or you imagine heather does, with her fingers rough and calloused, with her eyes dusk and wine-bitter.