Portia July

You’ve always felt liquid to me somehow. And I’ve been a filter, trying to hold you, but watching powerlessly as you slip right through my fingers.

I think I knew a crush was forming when we’d been working together for two, maybe three, months.

You had a soft spot for the older ladies who came in, especially widows. You always seemed to know when the door was too heavy for them; you rushed to open it. You asked them if they needed an umbrella out to the car. You ran to get them coffees with just the right amount of sugar and cream.

And it was during one of these transactions, with an elderly widow, that I finally realized I had a crush.

“Mrs. Sanders,” you said, “this is an awfully heavy stack of papers for you to carry, especially in the rain. Can I help you to your car?”

Your voice had become something I strained to hear. I found myself walking over to help, without consciously knowing what I was doing.

“Can I be of assistance,” I said. Which felt (and probably sounded) mechanical.

You half-smiled, awkwardly, and handed me the stack of papers. And the three of us walked out to Mrs. Sanders’ car.

As she climbed in, she leaned over to whisper into my ear.

I laughed nervously. She closed her door and drove away.

You and I stood under the bank’s umbrella and you asked, “What was that all about?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said, motioning for us to return to the bank.

You’d better act fast, Missy, she’d said to me, I’ve only met one other man this kind in my life, and I made him my husband. – ©️ 2021 Portia July

There was nothing extraordinary about the way we met. It was orientation and we were new loan processors. If this was a “how-it-started-versus-how-it’s-going” story, the look back would be boring compared to what happened today. But if I don’t start there, I can’t make sense of today.

It was a Monday morning. I’d just graduated the Saturday before. I thought I’d be on a high, but I was feeling insecure and inexperienced.

This was before I had Lasik, and my contacts had been too painful to wear that morning, so I wore my glasses. They were an old prescription, and they seemed to slide down the bridge of my nose every 20 seconds or so.

You were a loner – I could tell even then. But you channeled your nervousness into a façade of overconfidence. It was simultaneously attractive and annoying.

“Any questions before we take a break,” our trainer asked.

“Yeah,” you piped up. “What brand of coffee is brewing in the lobby?”

Girls in our group giggled.

Some guy cleared his throat.

I pushed my glasses back up and threw a glance at you over my shoulder.

You wore a freshly ironed button-up and a goofy grin. I know you won’t believe me when I say this, but I swear to God, you winked at me.

“Gotta learn all of the important stuff up front, right,” you said.

I turned back to the trainer, who smiled and shook his head.

“There’s always one of you in every orientation,” he said.

At the time, I agreed. But he was wrong about you. I know that now. And so does every person who’s still alive because of what you did in that bank today. © 2021 Portia July

To Be Continued…

I was shaking from shock, rubbing the goosebumps on my forearms. And you just left me there, on the steel bumper of the ambulance, your suit coat draped over my shoulders. 

The SWAT team, emergency personnel, and news crews swarmed, a blur of placid faces. A twenty-something uniformed female recited a textbook script full of medically relevant terms she’d memorized for people like us: “victims of near-death experiences.” I breathed in your scent and wondered who was telling you what you felt.  – © 2021 Portia July

(To be continued…)

Herbert and Delbert are twin brothers. They are both poor as dirt. But they could be multimillionaires, if not for their greed and their pride.

Unfortunately, they’ve both been keeping a secret from each other for nearly 13 years. Their mother, God rest her soul, would be ashamed to know the good little boys she raised have turned out this way. Their father would likely tell you that it was inevitable.

While most youth their age were headed for one university or another, Herbert and Delbert took the money their father gave them and headed for the border of Texas and Mexico. They each bought tickets to one of those get-rich-quick-scheme conferences. Inspired by tales of riches and glory, the young men purchased a piece of metal detection equipment and began beach hunting. 

It didn’t take long for them to get discouraged.

“I’ll take the morning shift so I can have my afternoons,” Herbert said one day.

“Fine,” Delbert said. He was fond of spending his nights at the bars anyway, so he thought it might be nice to sleep in for a change.

To each other, they both agreed they’d share whatever finds there were to be had.

Separately, each man told himself, “Finders, keepers.”

One evening, just before sunset, Delbert found something. He dug a metal box out of the sand. The box was quite big, heavy, and oddly-shaped. Delbert took his find home and attempted to open it with various tools. He wasn’t certain what the metal was made of, but it appeared impenetrable. I’ve got to find that key, he thought to himself as he wandered off toward the bars.

A few mornings later, just after dawn, Herbert made a discovery. Deep beneath the sand, a strangely-shaped key had been buried. This key is beautiful, Herbert thought, it must open something extraordinary.

He was right. 

Inside the box, a pirate’s stash of rare jewels awaits a lucky soul.

To this day, both brothers continue to keep their finds a secret from each other and continue to search, in hopes of stumbling upon the other half. – © 2015-2021 Portia July

The worst thing about a breakup is that you lose your best friend at the same time. You can make out or hookup with anyone. But there’s something magical about getting to kiss the same person you want to tell everything to.

You will, of course, dissect all of the “isms” with 20/20 hindsight. You will lay that moment when he asked you to  “stop dressing up for dates” down on the examination table and slice it open. Inside, you will uncover the same fears ingrained in you since childhood – he was trying to control you, he somehow thought you were a slut because you wore a dress, he didn’t like you the way you were. You will cringe at these familiar fears and then hold the magnifying glass up to his flaws. The car he drove, his meaningless tattoos, the drinks he ordered, the music he listened to – was he ever really good enough for you? You will conclude that it was never going to work anyway because he vaped

and you can’t marry a meme. 

Next, you will go through what I will refer to as the ‘Ariana Grande’ phase. You will shop. You will buy outfits and makeup you’ll never wear. You’ll get your nails done and your hair done. You’ll have “God is A Woman” or “No Tears Left to Cry” on repeat for days. You will go to Ulta or Kohl’s or wherever Ari’s latest perfume is out and buy the biggest bottle you can find. In the car, you’ll unwrap the crinkly packaging and douse yourself in cotton candy or freesia or sparkling berries with a hint of musk. And then, it will hit you, like a stomachache after too much candy: you wanted it, you bought it, and now you feel empty in a way you can’t articulate.

At that point, you will work. You will hyper focus. Let’s say you’re a nurse. You will advocate for your patients. While you would’ve backed down before, you now stand up to egotistical doctors. One of them might be impressed. He might ask you to lunch. You will turn him down and eat lunch in your car while you fill out applications for med school. Ariana will remind you from the radio that God is, indeed, a woman.

When you get your acceptance letter (when, not if), you will have a really strange moment. You will wish you could tell someone who knew how much it mattered and you might think of him. You might fantasize about calling him and telling him. In the fantasy, he will tell you that he is having a baby with his best friend’s girlfriend, and you will tell him congratulations and be unable to end the call fast enough.

You will then be glad you didn’t call him. You will be glad you broke up with him. You will be glad he vaped and drove a red car and ordered banana flavored drinks and used the word ‘Americana’ when you asked what his tattoos meant. You will be glad you got in to med school and you will promise yourself not to become the egotistical doctors you hate. You are still on the fence about Ari’s perfume, but you will always have “Thank U, Next” in heavy rotation on your workout playlist. You’ll be fine. – ©️ 2021 Portia July

Of course Bad Cop deflates the moment Richard knocks on the door. His routine was just getting to his favorite part, I’m guessing. He takes his pot of coffee with him as he leaves, thank God.

“Johanna,” Richard says, taking Bad Cop’s seat, “I need you to go over every detail of what happened last night.”

All of it is suddenly exhausting – the questions, the cops, the lights, the coffee, the cold, the fact that Ariela died only hours ago – all of it is suddenly enough to make me break.

I slam the coffee mug down on the table.

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘ no’?”

“I’m done. I want to go home. I want to be in bed. I want to pretend like today never happened.”

Richard stands again, rubbing his own red eyes. He crosses the room to stand behind me and leans over to whisper in my ear.

“Simon just accepted a plea deal. He says Ariela’s murder was your idea – that you demanded it. So, unless you can help me prove your own innocence, you’ll be sleeping in a prison cell for the rest of your life.” – © 2015-2021 Portia July

This is the final part. You can read Parts 1-3 in previous weeks.

I don’t know how all of this is supposed to work in the real world. In every cop show I’ve ever watched on television, the suspect is always told not to talk to the cops without an attorney present.

But I haven’t slept all night. So, when the door swung open and a detective entered with a pot of coffee and two mugs, I allowed him to reel me into small talk.

“So, what is it like to be a model,” he asks.

“It’s not that different from being a cop,” I say. “You show up when they tell you to show up. You wear what they want you to wear. And then, you deposit the checks.”

He chuckles.

“Yeah, you know, I’ve got a friend who’s dated a few models,” he says. “But it never really works out with them. You know why?”

“No, enlighten me.”

“Their paychecks are a lot bigger than his,” he says. 

I shrug.

“It makes sense to me,” he continues. “There are always more fish in the sea for us. But for girls like you it’s not an ocean you’re fishing in. It’s a pond. A small pond of men who don’t mind being in the tabloids, who don’t mind being kept.”

I see where he’s going with this. This must be the good cop, bad cop routine – minus the good cop. I sit perfectly still, hoping my face is as blank as I’m trying to make it.  

“That’s a lonely life. It must be even lonelier when you’re trying to fall asleep at night, knowing that the guy you’re screwing is probably falling asleep next to your best friend – the woman he’s actually made a lifelong commitment to.”

Where is Richard, I wonder. Is he still talking to Simon?

“Jo-Anna,” Bad Cop says, mispronouncing my name, “do you really think Simon loves you? Do you really think he’s going to protect you?”

What time is it? Couldn’t they at least keep a clock in here?

“You think he isn’t going to sell you out the first chance he gets?”

This coffee is awful.

“Why don’t you use your brain, Jo-Anna,” he says. “Save yourself. Because Simon is not going to.”

He’s just inches from my face now. 

Cops aren’t allowed to touch you, right? Even the bad ones?

“I can help you. Just tell me who killed Ariela.”

⤜ ⤜ ⤜

“How can you still be her friend,” Simon asked me on the night of their second wedding anniversary. 

We’d opened another bottle of champagne, intended for the surprise party he’d planned. Around midnight, when Ariela still hadn’t come home, the few guests who had remained began to awkwardly file out of the apartment. I was the only one left.

“How can you still be married to her,” I asked. “She hasn’t cheated on me.”

“That’s about the only thing she hasn’t done to you,” he acknowledged, taking another sip. “She doesn’t deserve you.”

“She doesn’t deserve either of us,” I said.

“No,” he said, “she doesn’t.”

I took in their apartment, the mess that remained from the “party,” the otherwise sterile-looking kitchen, the cold color palette of the living room. Ariela was a lot like the apartment she had moved Simon into – gorgeous at first glance, but empty on the inside.

“She’s irresistible, though. Right,” I asked.

Simon downed the rest of his champagne.

“I think I’m finally drunk enough to tell you,” he said, “something I should have told you a long time ago.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “No one’s sober here. You’re safe.”

“Remember that night – the night we met?”

“Yeah, at the club.”

“I wasn’t interested in Ariela.”

“You weren’t?”

“No, I approached her to ask about you.”

I tried to think about that night, to picture Simon and Ariela, but I really couldn’t remember. I hadn’t really noticed Simon until I saw how well he treated Ariela, even when Ariela treated him like he was less than human.

“Really?”

“She told me you weren’t into guys,” he said.

“She told you I was a lesbian?”

“I hate to admit it, but I didn’t think differently until you started dating that soccer player last year.”

It shouldn’t have surprised me. When Ariela wanted something that had my name all over it, she did whatever it took to get it.

That was the moment I decided it was time to get her back for every single time she had screwed me out of what was mine, starting with Simon. – © 2015-2021 Portia July

To Be Continued…

Richard enters the interrogation room with one of the detectives. 

“Good morning, Johanna,” he says.

“Good morning?”

I should have fired him years ago. But that’s the thing about agents – they’re often attorneys with all kinds of loopholes to keep you roped into your contract from now until kingdom come.

Once the detective is out of sight, the questions begin.

“What happened?” 

“She overdosed.”

“Were you there when she did it?”

“No.”

“Simon?”

“Simon called me when he found her,” I said.

“Why didn’t he call an ambulance first?”

“I don’t know.” 

Richard sighs.

“This doesn’t look good, Johanna.”

“I know it doesn’t, but it was suicide.”

“The evidence says otherwise,” he says gently.

“What evidence?”

“Signs of a struggle. The pill bottle was wiped clean – no fingerprints.”

I’m shaking harder now. Is it colder in here?

“You think Simon–?”

His brow wrinkles and he stares at a scratch in the table.

“Johanna, I don’t know what to think yet. You two were having an affair. Ariela found out. And now she’s dead. And the evidence tells me it wasn’t an accident.”

I’m pacing now, rubbing my hands over my arms rapidly, and my mind races. 

“Simon would never hurt her. He didn’t do this.”

“Was anyone with you when you got Simon’s call?”

I stop.

“No.”

“Can anyone verify that you were home when she overdosed?”

“There are cameras everywhere, Richard. My garage, their garage.”

“Okay.”

He pauses, studying my face.

“Johanna, were you involved in this? Did you–?”

The warmth of anger rushes over my body.

“No, I love Ariela like a sister,” I yell. “She is – was my best friend, one of the few people I knew I could rely on.”

“But she couldn’t rely on you, could she?”

As Richard leaves the room, I think about all of the ways Ariela used me. It isn’t completely fair to say that I could rely on her – unless I had been relying on her to screw me over every chance she got. Simon was the only revenge I ever wanted – or needed – to take.

⤜ ⤜ ⤜

“I’m so glad you’re feeling better, J,” Ariela said, patting my thigh like I was her pet.

We faced each other in the backseat of a limousine that was taking us to a private birthday party: a “friend of a friend” of Ariela’s, who had connections she wanted.

Twelve hours earlier, I’d woken up with what I thought was food poisoning. My call time for a shoot I’d been looking forward to for months was only an hour away and I wanted to die. Ariela quickly called Richard and offered to fill in for me. I was too busy throwing up to care when she left my apartment to make the call time.

“We’re never going back to Rusan’s for sushi ever again,” she assured me. 

Ariela gushed all about the photographer and the shoot. For my benefit she added: “I could never really be a sufficient replacement for you, of course.”

“I’m sure they all love you,” I said with a weak smile.

Ariela beamed.

“Hopefully,” she said. “But anyway, I’m really glad you’re feeling well enough to come party with me.”

“I still have a little bit of a headache,” I admitted, wincing at each bright light we passed.

She fumbled around in the gold clutch on the seat beside her.

“Here,” she said, slipping a pinkish-white pill into my hand. “This will help.”

I swallowed the pill with a few sips from a small bottle of water she offered me from the cooler. I should have asked her what I was taking, but that was when I still trusted Ariela.

Almost as soon as we arrived at the mansion, my vision became blurry. Colors began to swim. I heard names, saw faces, had conversations with complete strangers, but at some point, I blacked out.

The next morning, I awoke in an unfamiliar room, in an empty bed, completely naked. I was sore and covered in bruises, but I had no memory of what (or who) had happened to me. – © 2015-2021 Portia July

To Be Continued…

Rules don’t apply to some people. They’re licensed from birth for a lifetime of recklessness and cruelty. We have no ability to distinguish them from the rest of us, so we’re unwittingly pulled into the orbit of their chaos. They’re beautiful, intelligent, charismatic. We invite them to our parties. We share with them our deepest, most intimate secrets. We let them sleep next to us. And we only begin to suspect they are capable of treachery when we wake up alone, with knives in our backs.  

Police station interrogation rooms are brighter in real life than they’re portrayed on television. And they keep them cold enough to chill you to the bone. When the shaking starts, you don’t really know if it’s from the cold, or from the realization that you’re trapped in a room with a two-way mirror for an indefinite period of time. You’re isolated from the world because you’re presumed dangerous. You’re presumed guilty. Until proven otherwise. 

I look guilty. I’m acting guilty. I’ve already smoked three-quarters of Simon’s pack of cigarettes. They let me keep those until they brought me in here. They took my jacket. My hands rub the goose bumps that cover my arms, which are crossed in front of my chest to conceal parts of me I don’t want to be seen by pairs of eyes behind that mirror. 

Even after all of the debauchees I’ve had to undress in front of, I’d like to believe I can at least attempt autonomous decency. 

But changing in front of strangers never bothered Ariela. Even when those strangers carried cameras. 

⤜ ⤜ ⤜

The biggest show I’d ever booked — Spring in Milan — was almost as crowded backstage as it was in the front. 

Flash, flash, flash.

I’d just slipped out of my dress and fumbled for the next hanger. My seconds were more precious than my modesty in that instant. And one of the photographers took advantage of that.

“Hey,” I said, covering myself as quickly as I could. “Are you kidding? I’m changing! Leave me alone.”

“You’ll thank me,” he said, “when you have the privilege of working with me someday.”

He was old enough to be my grandfather and his eyes were beady – the kind of eyes that have seen too much of the world. 

Angry tears began to well up in my own eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I was humiliated enough already.

Ariela appeared from behind the wings, nonchalantly making her way to where her next ensemble hung. Her gait was calm, effortless… as if we weren’t in an overcrowded area with techno music pounding against our bodies. 

The photographer turned his attention to her as she slipped out of the gown she wore.

“PAPARAZZI,” I yelled.

But she couldn’t hear me.

His camera just kept flashing.

Ariela didn’t even flinch.

An assistant came to make final adjustments to my top, frowning.

“You’re much flatter than you were at the fitting,” she said. “But I guess there’s no time to fix that now, is there?”

With that, she waved me on to my place in the wings.  

Ariela listened sympathetically as I recounted the experience in our hotel room later that night.

“I’ve never felt so violated,” I said.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” she said. “Things are a little different in Europe. Didn’t Richard tell you that?”

“No,” I said, “he didn’t.”

Richard, my agent, had never been one to indulge me with full disclosure. His half-truths expanded beyond more than just my age, but it took me a while to realize that. 

Something occurred suddenly to Ariela and that million-watt smile spread across her face.

“There are a thousand girls who would kill us for this job, ” she said. “I’d rather have creepers snap naked pics of me and stay alive. Know what I mean?”

I nodded, thinking of the girls back home. A few close friends called me occasionally, when they saw one of my ad campaigns in a magazine or online. They used words like “envy” and “jealousy.” But between those phone calls, they did normal things. They ate full meals. They got enough sleep. They studied for exams. They wrote papers. They applied to universities. 

My picture reminded them of a life they’d never have – a life that somehow seemed more glamorous than theirs.

But they didn’t know anything about my life. They thought the face of the girl who appeared in those ads belonged to me. They thought the body that strutted international catwalks belonged to me. 

The truth is that everything I wore, everything I ate, everything I touched belonged to a brand, an agency, a consumer. 

So, in retrospect, I guess I really didn’t have the right to be upset when a stranger took photos of me. I ceased to own my image the day I signed my first contract.

I never saw that photographer again. Ariela told me a year or two later that she thought he’d been busted for child pornography. I don’t know if that’s true or not. But I do know that he leaked a few of those pictures of me onto the Internet. Richard told me he had tried (unsuccessfully) as hard as he could to get them removed.  – © 2015-2021 Portia July

To Be Continued…

*This is the end of the story, originally shared as ‘Systemic Risk.’ Parts 1 & 2 are also available below.*

    I waited until she got home. All of the lights were on.

    “Gavin?”

    “In here,” I called from the bedroom we’d shared for almost six months. I’d divided the moving boxes to occupy myself instead of pacing.

    “What are you still doing up? Don’t you have an interview early in the morning?”

    I did, but I knew it was pointless, like the last five interviews I’d gone to. Ace’s name always came up, as did the trumped-up investigation surrounding my departure from the firm.

    “What’s going on?”

    Maya draped her jacket over a chair. My chair.

    “I’m not going to the interview,” I said.

    Shock spread across her features. She’d done a fantastic job of touching up her hair and makeup.

    “Gavin, I know you’re discouraged, but we’ve got attorney fees to think about and–“

    “Ace,” I said.

    Maya’s eyes met mine.

    “Actually, Ace just sent me a message,” I said. “He’s decided to forgive my debt, out of the goodness of his heart. Despite the fact that you quit your job – because I asked you to – he let me know there are no hard feelings on his end anymore. He’s used the accusations I made to the SEC as an opportunity to get back on top of things. Let me play the message for you. It’s a video.”

    All of the color had drained from Maya’s face. I held up my cell phone and pressed play.

    “Do you recognize that voice, the one that’s moaning? I think it sounds pretty familiar.”

    Tears began streaming down her cheeks. I pressed stop.

    “You can stay here tonight, but I want everything that’s yours out when I get back here in the morning,” I said on my way to the door. She followed me.

    “Where are you going?”

    Her tears weren’t enough. I wanted her to hurt the way I did. Before I slammed the door to my apartment, I answered her.

    “To find number 783.”

***

    I wait until Frat Boy leaves to buy drinks.

    “Hello, Maya.”

    She’s thinner now. The way her cheekbones stick out makes her look emaciated.

    “Gavin?”

    “I see you’re back at it,” I say.

    “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” she says. “You of all people should understand. Excuse me.”

    I follow her outside.

    “I had one girl left, Maya.”

    Her face is blank. I can’t tell if she doesn’t understand, or if she doesn’t care.

    “You weren’t number 782. You were 999.”

    Now, I recognize the way her eyes narrow. She’s angry.

    “Hey.”

    I turn to see Frat Boy. Another glance in Maya’s direction and I know I’m not going to get a response. Her arms are crossed in front of her now, her knuckles white against her clutch. The streetlight catches the gaudy symbol of her self-imposed slavery. I want to tear it from the dainty wrist it encircles.

    “What’s going on, Adriana?”

    Frat Boy stands less than a foot from me, sizing me up. I’ve got several inches on him and he’s just interrupted a conversation I need to finish. It was definitely in his best interest to stay inside.

    “Noth-ing,” Maya enunciates both syllables, more for my benefit than his.

    He takes a step toward her. Paul followed him out of the club, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

    “This doesn’t look like ‘nothing.’ Who’s this guy?”

    My jaw twitches. Paul’s expression is wary.

    “Nobody.”

    “Nobody,” Frat Boy repeats. By this point, he’s belligerent.

    “I came out to get some air.”

    Now, he’s in her face. My pulse pounds.

    “Air? Is that what I’m paying you for? To get some air?”

    As involuntary as breathing, my muscles contract. My hand balls into a fist. It makes contact with his chin. He staggers back, wide-eyed. Vulnerable in his momentary shock, he takes a kick to the groin.

    “Gavin.”

    Maya’s voice sounds far away. I’m in an out of body experience that lasts for several seconds. I just can’t stop pounding this piece of…

    “Stop,” she yells. “Gavin, that’s enough.”

    He’s on his knees. I think he might be crying. A small crowd has gathered across the street, staring at us. A man on a cell phone covers his other ear and turns away as I notice him.

    “You know what,” I say, “you’re right. That is enough. Paul and I will let you two enjoy the rest of your evening. He’s right, anyway. It’s time for you to earn his money.”

    Paul glances between our scene and the crowd. “Gavin, we need to get out of here.”

    Maya nods in agreement. “We all do.”

    I hear sirens in the distance and the thought crosses my mind that they might be for me, but I feel no sense of urgency. Maya doesn’t seem to hear them.

    “Gavin, he told me. I already knew.”

    “What?”

    “Ace told me that night. He waited until after. One more girl and he’d have given you the money.”

    The sirens are closer. It isn’t my imagination. Wounded Frat Boy has moved from knees to elbows, now weeping shamelessly on the ground. Paul shifts uncomfortably, then reaches down to offer his hand. Frat Boy reluctantly takes it and stands to his feet, holding his bloody head in his hands.

    “Gavin, we need to get out of here,” Paul says.

    I ignore him, searching for any sign of emotion from Maya. “You knew?”

    “I wanted to save you. He promised he would forget about the money. I only had to do it once. And it would all be over. It was just a game to him. He set me up. And I fell for it.”

    Even as red and blue lights flash and the sirens grow deafening, I feel I’m existing outside of this space and time. Ace knew I was gunning for a thousand, but I never gave him an exact number. There was only one other person on the face of the Earth who had known the number.

    “Paul.”

    He won’t even look at me. His eyes are on the police cars, now a little less than two blocks away, weaving through traffic.

    “Gavin, you’d better go,” he says. “I’ll call my attorney for you.”

    “Don’t bother,” I say, admiring my own handiwork on Frat Boy’s face, “Besides, it’s in his best interest not to press charges.”

    One last look at Maya tells me what I think I’ve known for years: she’s just a shell. She’s a pretty face with hollow insides – for sale to the highest bidder each night.

    “Take care of yourself, Adriana.”

    I disappear into the alley, in no particular hurry because I don’t have anywhere to be. I’m a free man.

***

    It’s Saturday morning. I wake up on my sofa, with a pounding headache and sore knuckles, wearing the wrinkled clothes I wore to the club last night. Video game music blares through the wall.

    I’m starving. There’s nothing in the kitchen, except for a wrinkled orange and half a bag of stale powdered donuts. I go for the donuts.

    There’s still a cartoon or two left on TV. During a commercial break, a reporter introduces a sound bite from an upcoming news story. Numbers flash across the screen. They’re my numbers. A woman tearfully describes her husband – a hardworking, dedicated man who has become a multimillionaire overnight by winning the lottery with the numbers he stole from me.

    “I’m overjoyed,” she says, “Louis can finally retire from his job at the gas station.”

    Powdered sugar puffs out of my mouth as I begin to cough. I run into the kitchen, searching frantically for a clean water glass. Nothing. I fling open a cabinet door, coughing uncontrollably while removing the cap from a bottle I’ve been saving for the right occasion. I chase it all down with single malt scotch to keep from choking. – ©️ 2014-2021 Portia July

(This is the end, continued from the last two weeks – see below.)

*If you were in a Creative Writing class with me, this was originally shared with the title ‘Systemic Risk.’ This is Part 2. Part 1 was published last week. Part 3 will be available next week.*

    I met her when I was a trader. A consolation prize, an apology—that’s all she was ever supposed to be. I’d just lost an account I’d been courting for a while to my best friend from college, Paul, who’d gotten me the job at the firm in the first place.

    “Gavin,” Paul knocked on my office door. “Got a minute? I want you to meet Ace.”

    I sized up the man who held his hand out to shake mine. I’d expected someone who looked like a criminal. There were no scars to indicate severe gang initiation beatings, no prison tattoos on his wrists to document a misspent youth. In a pressed grey suit, tailored to his five-foot-nine frame, Ace looked like any other business man. How twisted a man is can’t be judged by the knot in his silk tie.

    “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Ace.”

    “Likewise, but you can leave out the ‘mister,’ Gavin.” His expression was friendly enough. “You do great work. Our projections have never looked better.”

    I nodded in an attempt to mask my bitterness. “Glad to hear that, sir.”

    Glad. That’s the word to use when an unsavory billionaire rips a $200,000 rug right out from under your feet, then returns to pat you on the back while you’re licking your wounds.

    “Gavin,” Ace said, clearing his throat, “I am a business man. What happened today was business, not personal. But I want to make it up to you.”

    Ace pulled a business card from his breast pocket and laid it on my desk.

    “I’d like to monetize your personal pursuit.”

    The card was black with numbers clustered in the shape of a diamond.

    “My personal – what is this?”

    Ace grinned. “It’s a gift. And a lesson on quality versus quantity. Pick your poison. They’ll put her on my tab. When’s your birthday?”

    “May 9th,” I said.

    “You make it to a thousand in the next eight months and I will wire $200,000 into any account you’d like.”

    Paul and I exchanged glances.

    “And if I don’t?”

    “It’s a bet,” Ace winked. “You will.” He turned to Paul. “I’ll show myself out.”

    Once Ace had disappeared into the hallway, I chucked the card into my waste basket.

    “Gavin, he knows how hard you worked on the account.”

    “And he’s paying me in sex because he thinks I’m an addict – thanks to you.”

    Paul shook his head. “I told him it was just a goal you set for yourself. It shows you’re ambitious. No other guy I know is even close to having a thousand notches on his belt by age thirty.”

    “I’m not calling. He’s a snake.”

    “He’s a rich snake, Gavin.” Paul bent to retrieve the card from my waste basket. “And this is how rich snakes apologize.”

***

    As instructed, I wait for the beep.

    The wine bottle slams into the passenger side door as I turn into the parking lot of my apartment complex.

    “Hey Paul, it’s Gavin again. Wondering if you have plans for next weekend. There’s a show I want to see at the 169. Call me back.”

    Paul hardly ever returns my calls these days. If roles were reversed, I can’t say I wouldn’t avoid him. There’s a reason I teach Algebra. No one on Wall Street would take me after I was fired. Ace blackballed me. I assumed that made us even. In Ace’s eyes, we weren’t—not even close.

***

    A month after I’d met Ace, I found myself drunk and alone in my apartment.

    “Thank you for calling Diamond Associates. Please listen to the prompts and make your selection.”

    It wasn’t the first time I had called, but it was the first time I’d responded to the automated system. I was nervous, but casual sexual encounters were a risky business altogether. I’d been through the fake pregnancy scares, the real pregnancy scares, the STD scares, the angry boyfriend scares. Jail time didn’t seem like much of a threat, all things considered.

    Within the hour, I checked into a hotel five blocks from my apartment.

    A gorgeous young brunette arrived at the bar a few minutes after me, wearing a blue cocktail dress that accentuated all of her curves. She is known by those who pay for her company as Adriana. But that isn’t her name.

   ***

    “Unbelievable.”

    For three straight weeks now, the mystery man who has taken a liking to my numbers has purchased the ticket by Monday morning.

    “I am very sorry,” Louis says. “You literally just missed him.”

    I pay for a coffee, black with a dash of sugar, and forego the lottery ticket for the first time in years. By the time I get on the road, traffic is backed up. I’m stuck behind a white Cadillac, driven by a blonde who is more concerned about doing her makeup than making it to work. The ceiling of my own car feels lower today than it usually does.

    A sealed envelope is waiting on my desk when I arrive in my classroom. I toss the entertainment section of the newspaper beside it and drop my bag on the floor.

    Work has been a nightmare over the past couple of weeks. Our funding heavily relies on annual assessments the students are required to take. Even after several weeks of prep, all of my students bombed their assessments. I suspect that the administration is firing me, but I don’t know that they’ll even get the chance. I decide to file the unopened letter in my waste basket.

***

    “You’re like a drug,” I said.

    “Is that a line you use on every girl you sleep with?”

    She didn’t know she was the only girl I’d slept with since we’d met.

    “Only the ones who use fake names.”

    I toyed with the bracelet on her wrist, a gaudy gold piece she wore to let her friends know she was working. Friends who might approach her at a club or a fundraising event. Friends who knew her as someone other than Adriana. I hated that bracelet.

    The sheets crinkled as she rolled to face me. I brushed a strand of her hair away so I could focus on the flecks of gold in her green eyes – no small feat without my glasses.

    “I’ll tell you my name if you tell me my number,” she said.

    “Tell me your name and I’ll let you guess your number,” I said.

    “Maya.”

    “Maya,” I repeated. I picked a number in my head. “Maya, you’re 782.”

    She smiled. “And what number are you on now?”

    “Still 782.”

    “You’re lying,” she said.

    “No.”

    “It’s been three months.”

    At that point in my life, I had everything and nothing – simultaneously.

    “Maya, I am in love with you. I want you to quit this. Move in with me.”

    She laughed. “You’re serious?”

   ***

    Paul finally called back almost a month after the last message. We meet at the club, order a couple of drinks each, and make small talk for half an hour before the bands start playing. We’ve been friends for long enough that we don’t feel any need to sugarcoat our lives. We’re both single men who hate our jobs. After a while, there’s really nothing to talk about. I realize now that’s why we never call each other anymore.

    As the opening band finishes their set, a guy who looks like he never graduated from his frat house pushes through the crowd, dragging a beautiful brunette in a pink dress behind him.

    “Did you know she was going to be here?” Paul asks.

    “I had an inkling,” I say.

    “You’re too calculated for inklings,” he says. – ©️ 2014-2021 Portia July

(To Be Continued NEXT Week…)

*If you were in a Creative Writing class with me, you’ll recognize this story as originally shared with the title ‘Systemic Risk.’ This is Part 1. Part 2 will be available next week.*

Fifty-two times a year, I buy a lottery ticket. Usually I wait until Friday afternoon, unless it’s a bad week. I stop at the last gas station I pass on my way home from work. It’s the one right next to the discount liquor store, which is convenient if it’s been a really bad week. I always choose the same lottery numbers for half-methodical, half-sentimental reasons. I don’t believe in luck anymore.

    Today is Friday. I don’t bother locking my classroom door. Should the malcontents I teach conspire and break in over the weekend, I invite them to torch everything. I’m sure the janitor locks all of the classroom doors at the end of his two-hour shift. I’ve heard rumors about how much money he makes. He’d better be doing something to earn his paycheck. Five days a week, I spend eight hours in a room that reeks of sweat and urine, teaching Algebra to at-risk high school students who stare at me like I’m a freak. I used to be a day trader. The money I spent on the car I drove then would cover my current rent for ten years. Ten years. I try not to think about that too much.

    It was candy apple red. I got a lot of speeding tickets driving that car, almost lost my license. I can close my eyes and remember every detail – the gears shifting seamlessly, the intimacy of the songs that came through the speakers, the lingering scent of leather mixed with her perfume.

    The car I drive now was a used purchase, acquired for very little cash and a lot of desperation.

    “It’s not fancy,” the seller stated the obvious while he watched me kick the tires. “But it’ll get you from A to B.”

    He failed to mention the other four letters I’d encounter between A and B: H-E-L-L. My economy sedan is painted a hail-damaged black, with manual windows, an out of commission air conditioner, and a wet dog scent that gets downright oppressive in the summer. The seventeen-and-a-half minute drives between school and my apartment feel a lot longer in August than they do in January.

    A construction crew is rolling up black compressor hoses and orange extension cords as I pull into the gas station’s parking lot. My door creaks open and they stare as I awkwardly climb out of the driver’s seat. I’m not attractive, but I’m used to being noticed. At just over six-foot-seven, with albino white, curly hair, and thick black-rimmed glasses, I’m hard to miss.

    “Gavin,” Louis the attendant greets me as I walk through the door, “they’ve raised the prices next door.”

    I’ve noticed the crew working on the liquor store every morning when I passed by this week, but it never occurred to me that a remodel would mean higher prices. Of course it should have.

    “No kidding? How much?” I ask.

    Louis is waiting for a customer to make a decision on a gum purchase, so I politely wait several feet back from the counter, my eyes tracing the chips in the dirty, outdated tile. There’s a hint of professional grade cleaner in the air.

    “My bottle of whiskey was a dollar more yesterday than it was last weekend. You know it started with Smith’s. I guess Marco’s just the first one to cave,” Louis says, referring to the liquor store’s owner.

    “Well, I don’t blame Marco for trying to make an extra buck. Everybody’s doing it – my landlord raised my rent again at the beginning of the year,” I say.

    “It’s a racket, man,” Louis says, turning his attention back to the woman who’s made her selection. Wintermint.

    Smith’s General Store, a high-end corporate grocery store chain came in shortly after I moved to the neighborhood. Investors have been buying up low income housing and opening new restaurants. Gentrification has been good for the established business owners, too. But for everyone else, day to day life has become more expensive. I should have moved after the rent increased, but moving requires motivation I don’t have and money I don’t want to spend.

    Louis cheerfully counts change for the woman, making small talk like always. He’s a short man, maybe early forties, with dark hair and a dark beard – I think he might be Italian. He’s got a wife and three kids. Or, maybe four. I can’t remember. Anyway, I doubt he makes good money here. But he’s always in a good mood. Maybe it’s the whiskey.

    “Look,” Louis says after the woman exits the store, “I have more bad news. Some guy took your numbers earlier this week.”

     “What?”

     My mind is racing to calculate the odds of that happening. I chose the numbers from a chart I created myself, based on numbers that belonged to someone I knew before I lost everything. She was the closest I ever came to being lucky.

    “I tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted,” Louis says.

    It’s irrational, but I feel like I’ve been robbed. One of the few things I care about now belongs to someone else. For this week, at least.

    Quickly scrambling the numbers in my head, I make my ticket purchase and wish Louis a good weekend. Next door, the inside of the liquor store smells of fresh sawdust, wet paint, and vodka from a bottle that burst when the Indecisive Gum Buyer from the gas station dropped it moments before my arrival.

    I don’t drink vodka. I hate the way it smells. I don’t drink beer, either. There’s a reason for “cheap, unintelligent, simple guy” stereotypes in the beer commercials. Most of my students were probably fathered by beer drinkers.

    I drink wine. Spicy, full bodied reds. The right wine, if its layers are complex enough, is a drink for the sophisticated gentleman who doesn’t want to shell out the cash for scotch. I actually have a bottle of single malt scotch in my kitchen cabinet, but I’m saving it for the right occasion – either the day I win the lottery, or the day I get her back. Until then, I drink wine.

    “I’m so sorry,” the Indecisive Gum Buyer apologizes to Marco’s daughter, Rosa, as she finishes cleaning up the mess. Rosa doesn’t seem bothered. She’s sweet as sugar and if she wasn’t so young, I would hit on her, Marco or no Marco.

   I can’t stop thinking about the ticket. I’m not obsessive compulsive. I’m just very particular about certain things. I don’t have a good feeling about the numbers I just picked.

    It really shouldn’t matter, though. The numbers I use are based on a lie. I never told her. Some truths are better left untold. – ©️ 2014-2021 Portia July

(To Be Continued NEXT Week…)

*This is a tiny excerpt from a novel I’m currently querying. My favorite rejection so far? I wanted to love it, but I just didn’t.*

…

The speakers crackle mid-sentence and fall silent. There’s a monotone buzzing.

Heels click against the concrete floor and reverberate off of the walls. Vega imagines someone approaching in stilettos. She laughs.

“Something funny?”

The heels stop clicking. A very tall woman now towers over Vega. She smells like peppermint. She’s wearing white sunglasses and a wide grin, with teeth stained yellow from excessive coffee or cigarettes or both.

“My name is Eve,” the woman says. “And I love jokes. So, please, do tell me what’s funny.”

“Ugh, I’m terrible at remembering jokes,” Vega says. “Well, maybe that’s too self-deprecating. I always remember the punchline, but forget the set-up. And if you give away the punchline from the start, you might as well not bother to tell the joke.”

“Indeed,” Eve says. “Why bother?”

“Are you wearing stilettos,” Vega asks.

Eve folds her arms across her chest. She exhales peppermint. She’s wearing a white turtleneck. Against the bright white walls, she looks like an eyeless, floating head with a pair of hands. And her teeth really are much too yellow for the scene.

“I suppose you came for Lannix,” Eve says.

“Who’s Lannix,” Vega says.

“You never forget the set-up, do you,” Eve says.

“I can tell already,” Vega says, “that you and I are going to have a really fantastic time together.”

“Oh, yes,” Eve replies. “And you’re stuck with me now. The Committee just voted against coming to get you.” 

– ©️ 2020-2021 Portia July

            It’s been three years since I last saw Grandpa.

            Audra and I brought our (then) nine-month-old to Galveston at my father’s insistence.

            “He’s ornery,” Dad had conceded. “But he won’t be around much longer and he needs to meet his first great-grandchild.”

            After a debilitating fall that broke his hip, Grandpa chose to remain in his beloved semi-tropical environment.

            “Everything’s bigger in Texas,” he’d say over the phone, “and better.”

            He must’ve chanted that to himself decades earlier as his rearview mirror swallowed his wife, children, and the unpaid mortgage he left behind.

            Dad chose Grandpa’s nursing home. It was a charming five-bedroom house in a suburb of Galveston, not far from the beach. The front yards of the surrounding houses were littered with children’s ride-on toys and broken toilets-turned-flower-beds. Grandpa’s yard was pristine. Hibiscus, oleander, and elephant’s ears grew near a white stone bird bath. Porch swings swayed in the humid breeze.

            The good die young. The not-so-good grow old in paradise.

            Grandpa was waiting by the front door in a bright green and blue polka-dotted hat that declared, “It’s Party Time.” His face was clean-shaven, his posture stately despite the wheelchair. He wore a faded red button-up, grey suspenders, and a black pair of polyester dress pants. And, of course, he had his cowboy boots on.

            “Well, lookee here, lookee here,” he said in his Southern Texas drawl. “Deary, you are lookin’ mighty fine.”

            Grandpa’s grandchildren are all “Deary” to him. My cousins and I have discussed this at length, determining that it is easier than remembering our individual names.

            “And so are you, Grandpa,” Audra lied, greeting him for both of us.

            A vain man, Grandpa had never been overweight. But I guessed he’d lost several pounds, judging from the looks of his hollow, grey cheeks.

            “That’s because I’m happy here,” he said. “Happy, happy, happy.”

            A phrase he should have trademarked.

            Oliver began to cry.

            “My lands… That’s just the Cherokee blood in her coming out,” Grandpa said.

            “Grandpa,” I said, “this is your great-grandson, Thomas Oliver Brewer.”

            “Oh,” he beamed. “A Thomas, huh? That’s a fine name. You can’t go wrong with a Thomas.”

            Thomas is Grandpa’s first name, just as it was my father’s first name. And mine. Giving it to Oliver had been Audra’s decision.

            The nurses ushered us into the kitchen, where a large table had been covered with a red plastic table cloth. In the center, a white cake waited to be cut. A quote about the tree of life had been penned on it in black icing. A cheerful yellow covered the walls. Balloons floated from white ribbons, clinging to the windows and patio door as if they wanted to escape.

            For the next two hours, we listened to him rewrite family history. Didn’t we know what a good Christian he was? Hadn’t we heard that he had given generously to those in need? Weren’t we aware that his was a happy life?

            I promised myself I would never return to that nursing home that reeked of pina colada air freshener ever again.

            But then my father got sick.

            “Don’t deny a man his last dying wish,” Dad said with a smile. “He needs to see the beach again.”

            Even if he hadn’t forced a promise out of me to visit Grandpa, Dad’s death meant that I was now required to act as Grandpa’s power of attorney. My first challenge in this new role was to find new hospice care for Grandpa. A mild case of the measles had given way to encephalitis. The virus had weakened his immune system and attacked his brain cells.

            “I know it’s bad timing,” a nurse told me over the phone.

            The timing could not have been worse. I had one week to burn until a group of shareholders would decide the fate of the company Dad and I built from the ground up. Instead of much needed prep time in the office, I found myself speeding down a Texas highway in a rental, reminding myself of all of the reasons my Dad should have hated Grandpa.

***

            Born and raised on a Cherokee reservation, Grandpa’s ticket out was a construction job in the city. Most of what I know about him is secondhand, but all of it is interesting – even if it isn’t actually true.

            I’ve heard that he was an automobile magazine collector, banking on a stranger’s word that they would be worth good money in fifty years. (They’re as worthless now as they were back then.)

            I’ve heard that he used to spit in his chewing tobacco because it kept the other guys on the crew out of his can of chew.

            That he never washed the handkerchief he always kept in his shirt pocket.

            That he used to bury money in coffee cans in his backyard.

            That he could cuss like a sailor and sing like an angel.

            That he allowed several days to pass between baths.

            I’ve also heard that he was handsome, which partly explains how my grandmother—a woman half his age—fell in love with him. But Grandpa was in love with gambling, alcohol, and chasing other women.

            “He never could stay home,” Dad had admitted when I was old enough to wonder where he’d gone wrong.

            Before he found Jesus and sobered up for good, my grandmother had been hospitalized five times. Three times for domestic abuse. And twice when she gave birth, to my aunt and then to my dad. Grandpa had also fathered an illegitimate child – an aunt I’ve never met. The weight of his guilt was a burden he soon grew weary of carrying. With Texas in his heart and Kansas in his rearview mirror, he set out to make a new life for himself.

            A happy, happy, happy life.

            I knew none of this as a child. I knew the man in worn Western shirts and scuffed cowboy boots. I knew he loved polka music and poodles and the blue Oldsmobile he drove from Texas to see me every Christmas. He stopped visiting when he was too old to drive, and then it was up to my parents to drive to Texas.

            Instead, we mailed him our annual family Christmas picture. Dad called him every few weeks. In his absence, I grew curious about him.

I never heard Grandma speak about Grandpa. But I did ask her – only once – what he was like.

“He’s lost,” she said. “Some men never will find themselves.”

That was that. As though she was telling me how to boil eggs or spell an unusual word. Matter-of-fact, with no emotion whatsoever. So, I never asked her about him again.

            As I grew older, Grandpa became “Grandpa Texas,” a larger-than-life name without a face. Grandpa Texas says hello. One of Grandpa Texas’s poodles died last week. Grandpa Texas started seeing his next door neighbor.

            During college, Dad began to visit him, flying down for a weekend to take him to dinner and to the beach. I heard the occasional updates about him, but I began to tune them out. Grandpa Texas got lost in the shuffle between work, school, Audra, and our family—which I decided he’d ceased to be a part of the moment he’d first crossed that state line.

***

            I didn’t see him again until my wedding day, which was nearly eight years ago.

            “Where is your girl, Deary,” he asks me for the third time today.

            “She stayed home with Oliver,” I repeat as patiently as I can, pulling in to the open parking space closest to the beach.

            “Well, she sure is a dandy,” he says, patting my hand. I’m not sure if he’s referring to Audra, or to Oliver, as I’ve already had to remind him that Oliver is a boy.

            I climb out and shut the door behind me. The waves audibly rush from the shoreline, a sound that reminds me of the way Audra breathes when she’s asleep. I can almost smell her perfume, feel her skin against mine… But she’s eight hours away. All I have is the salty air, the breeze from the beach, and Grandpa Texas in the front seat of my rented Chevy Malibu.

            The nurses helped me get him into the front seat; it’s no small feat to get him out and into his wheelchair by myself.

            “My lands! It is a beautiful day, isn’t it,” Grandpa says as I wheel him through the sand.

            He takes in the young crowd playing Frisbee ahead of us as I watch his wheels make deep tracks behind him. I find a good place to stop and it occurs to me that I didn’t even think to bring a lawn chair with me. Silently, I will the cheap green and white ones collecting dust and spiders in our garage to come to me on this beach in Galveston, where they will find me standing awkwardly beside a half-stranger in a wheelchair.

            “You want to know a fact about seagulls, Deary,” Grandpa asks.

            “Sure,” I say, focusing on the group of them he’s been watching.

            “When they’re hungry, they’ll stomp on the ground—in a circle—until earthworms come out.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes, Deary. I read that,” he says emphatically. “It is a learned behavior, passed on from generation to generation.”

            That’s one thing I do remember about Grandpa—he likes to read, about anything and everything. Dad was the same way. I’m sure most of their beachside talks were like this, exchanging factual details they found interesting while watching waves and seagulls.

            “I put in an application for another position,” Grandpa says.

            I look at him, confused, but then I remember. He’s sick.

            “You did?”

            “It’ll be a lot of work on high beams, but I don’t mind it,” he says.

            “You don’t,” I ask.

            The nurses encouraged me to go along to keep from upsetting him, so that’s what I’m doing.

            “It only takes one fall,” he says, holding up a crooked finger, “for your body to break apart into a million pieces.”

            His jaw clenches visibly beneath his thin, grey skin.

            “But that’s where I belong, you know. That’s where I’m happiest. Happy, happy, happy.”

            “Of course,” I say, careful not to call him Grandpa, as I’m unsure of my own identity in the havoc of his virus-ridden brain.

            I take in the variety of people on the beach around us—teenagers, families, retirees—and I wonder how we look to them.

            A pale young man. Mid-thirties. In a blue polo and khakis. A husband. A father. A loyal man. Who keeps showing up, even when he doesn’t want to get out of bed.

            Standing next to a frail ninety-something year old man with leathery skin who is wasting away to nothing, even as he sits in his wheelchair. Alone.

            And suddenly I understand that this is what Dad wanted me to see.

            Grandpa Texas isn’t a monster. And he isn’t larger than life.

            He’s just a man.

            A man who loves polka music and reads about seagulls. A man who’s tried all his life to outrun his transgressions. In a pair of cowboy boots.

            “Where is your girl, Deary?”

            “She stayed home with our son, Thomas Oliver,” I say with a smile.

            “A Thomas,” Grandpa says, surprised. “That’s a fine name for a Brewer.”

            “We thought so,” I agree.

            “That’s wonderful, Deary,” Grandpa says. “That makes me happy. Happy, happy, happy.”

            And for the first time in my life, I believe him. – ©️ 2021 Portia July

When I’m really scared, I think about the time you held a gun to my head.

I still don’t know if it was loaded.

I know now that it doesn’t matter if it was.

I wasn’t afraid of dying.

I was afraid of living.

There were boys who loved the Beatles and me. They had guitars, and big dreams, and the same stars in their eyes that I had in mine.

There were coffee dates, and Showbread shows, and songwriting sessions, and after-parties.

I said, “No,” because of getting pregnant. Because of STDs. Because I was “saving myself.”

For?

(This was before I understood words like “agency” and “autonomy.”)

I was scared of being “dirty,” or “used,” or “discarded,” and then “recycled.”

Because finding a t-shirt at the thrift store?

Cool.

Finding a bride at the thrift store?

Not cool.

(This was before I understood words like “love.”)

And then you came along. No guitar, no dreams, no stars.

There was coffee, but it was never a date.

I thought we were friends. But friends don’t do what you did.

And then I was the party girl – the “sweet” and “adorable” girl. The boys still loved the Beatles and me. They still had guitars and called me from tour buses and texted me pictures of places they’d always dreamed of going.

And I still said, “No.”

The stars in my eyes were gone.

I told one of them what happened. He read my message between takes on vocals in a studio in another state.

“Now I feel like a slimeball,” he said.

And I held my arms out wide so someone could tuck a hanger in my collar for the thrift store rack.

Consent is mandatory, but it was optional to you. A grey area. I said, “No,” but you took my voice away. Stole it. I didn’t trade it for legs or anything else.

And then there was another you.

You had a bass guitar, but honestly I didn’t care enough to ask if you had dreams or to pay attention if there were stars in your eyes.

You knew how to make me laugh, but I didn’t know if you loved the Beatles (or me). And you drank too much beer.

There was a bonfire and your friend talking about one of my friends’ bands. His girlfriend sat on his knee and pretended not to know me, but we used to be best friends.

When you were on top of me, I said, “No.” I tried to scream, but you put your hand over my mouth.

I wondered if she could hear me.

I wondered if she would come help me if I called her name.

She told everyone we knew that I was “a slut.”

You followed me for a while when I got Instagram, but I never followed you back.

Not one, but two girls called me after I’d become a mannequin at the thrift store. (They’d even put me in a wedding dress.)

“How did you get away,” they said.

I told them.

But I didn’t tell them about the time you came to that Butch Walker show, walked through during a ballad, and found me.

And the ensuing commotion.

The crowd parting.

The bartenders shoving you out the door.

You saying things that stick like barbs in my mind.

And then me collapsing into a crying heap in my date’s arms.

He just kept rubbing the back of my head and telling me it would be OK. I never saw him again.

Everybody wants to watch the train wreck to have something to talk about tomorrow, but nobody wants to sift through it for the gold they can’t see.

There were other(you)s.

One had a guitar and my best friend had a crush on him (you).

There was a show. We all snuck in through the exit. There was laughter and dancing and drinking. I was happy. Not sweet, adorable, “party girl” happy. An innocent kid having fun. Genuinely happy.

And then I woke up naked in his (your) bed.

I remember brushing my teeth in the bathroom with his (your) roommate, then falling asleep on the couch, and then nothing.

“Who took my clothes off?”

“Oh, I did that,” you said.

Twice? Sure, it might happen to a girl once. But not twice.

My best friend stopped talking to me.

“I would never put myself in that position,” your girlfriend said.

She’s happily married now, to someone else. It wasn’t a thrift store wedding.

I have no idea where you are, but I know you did to her what you did to me and to those other girls, and I hope you hang yourself with the rope you’ve built for yourself.

It was a leash for me, and then a noose, and then a necklace. But I finally took it off and I’m burning it. – ©️ 2021 Portia July