Monica sat at the bar of a darkened nightclub. The man standing beside her was leaning over, whispering into her ear, as he had been doing for the last hour.
He laughed to himself at something he said. Monica didn’t hear it; the techno music in the club was blasting too loud. She threw her head back, laughed with him anyway.
He waved down the bartender and ordered Monica a fourth vodka tonic without asking her if she wanted it.
His left hand was on her bare thigh, just above her knee. Her skirt hiked itself up to just inches below her crotch. Monica was too drunk and too numb to care. No one noticed how the man was touching her anyway. The place was too crowded.
Monica stole a look at herself in the mirror behind the shelves of bottles lining the bar. Her makeup was heavy over her light brown skin. Her eyeliner was dark, her lipstick bright red. Her hair was cropped short, but it had finally grown long enough to cover the surgical scar, where the bullet fragments had been removed from her skull.
Her girlfriends said her hair looked cute. They said they wished they had the courage to cut theirs all off. It wasn’t courage that had Monica walking around like this. It was the fact that someone had tried to kill her.
“Here you go, baby,” the man said. He was tall, with chiseled facial features and broad shoulders. Good-looking in a very generic way. “Drink up.”
Monica did what she was told. Her head spun more. She smiled. As she looked into the man’s eyes, he smiled back mischievously.
Yes, he was good-looking, but it wouldn’t have mattered what he looked like. Monica had thrown on a tight, low-cut, button-front dress and planted herself on this stool knowing some fool would approach her, start buying her drinks, and give her the attention she needed.
“How you feel?” the man asked. He had told her his name a few times. Monica didn’t remember it.
“I’m ready to go.”
“Let me walk you to your car.”
“Sure,” Monica said, standing on wobbly heels.
Outside, the parking lot was quiet but packed bumper-to-bumper tight. Monica leaned against her Jaguar, the man’s body pressed against hers.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He leaned in, attempting to kiss her.
“Don’t kiss me,” Monica said, turning away, allowing him to suckle her neck.
She felt one of his hands on her breast. She didn’t push him away. He quickly undid two of her buttons, and his hand was down inside the cup of her bra, pinching her nipple.
“I’m dizzy,” Monica said.
“Let me get you inside the car.”
Monica allowed herself to be lowered into the Jaguar. She heard him close the door for her and caught a glimpse of the man hurrying around the front of the car. The passenger side door opened and closed. Before Monica knew it, both her breasts were bared, the man holding them, sucking voraciously.
Monica heard him moving about the small interior, felt his hands move all about her body. She did not look at him. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed.
She felt his warm hands on her bare thighs. She felt his lips kiss her knees. She heard him gasp when he spread her legs.
Monica smiled a bit, knowing it was the shock of discovering she wore no panties.
“I want to taste you,” she heard the man say.
“Go ’head,” Monica heard herself say back.
She felt his hot, wet tongue between her legs, and now Monica’s eyes were open. The dizziness seemed to disappear. She looked down at the top of the man’s head. He was working hard, trying to impress her.
Monica moaned, not because what he was doing felt good, but because she wanted it to, needed it to. She wanted to feel something, but she couldn’t.
She moaned again. “Oh, baby. It’s so good. It’s so, damn good!” She pretended. She grabbed the back of his head with both hands, pressed his face deeper into her. “Tell me you love it.”
“I love it,” the man said, raising his head slightly, just to be heard.
Monica dropped her head back again, staring at the ceiling of her car. She thought about her failed marriage to Nate, about the failed relationship with Lewis that had followed, then the failed attempt at the reconciliation of her marriage. She told herself not to go there, not again, but she could not stop herself. She thought about how no one loved her, how no one wanted her, and she felt herself descending into the place that oftentimes had her crying when she was alone.
“Tell me you love me,” Monica said, ashamed, but needing to hear the words from someone, even a total stranger.
She felt the man’s head stop for a moment.
“Tell me you love me!”
“I love you,” said the man’s muffled voice.
“Tell me you need me!”
“I need you,” he said, still licking and lapping so much that saliva was dripping down Monica’s inner thigh onto her leather seat.
She tried to stop the tears but they kept coming down her face.
The man raised his head, staring at Monica as though she were insane. “Are you crying?”
She wiped at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “No.”
“You are.”
“I need for you to go,” Monica said, regaining her senses and sliding up in her seat.
“But, baby. We were just—”
“I’m not your fucking baby, and I said I need you to get out!” Monica screamed.
The man blinked. “Fine, crazy bitch. But don’t you—”
“Just get the fuck out!”
The man obeyed, climbing out of the car, slamming the door hard behind him.
Monica didn’t watch as the man walked back around the front of her car, glaring at her hatefully, flipping her the bird through the windshield.
She lowered her face into her hands and continued to cry.