late, but go to Ravens and I promise I’ll meet you there. Xs Bri.”
My chest tightens and I exhale. I cock my head to the side and text Brianna back.
“OK, see u there.”
Now, whether or not I will actually see Brianna there is another thing. I’ve already rated this outfit as dangerous and obviously at the bare minimum I need to do a flyby. I’m definitely not going to sit at home on Friday night in leather and lace and stare at my candle-lit fire. I can hear Bridget Jones’ drunken anthem of “All By Myself” playing. I close my eyes. Not a pretty sight. No way am I turning into pajama girl tonight. No, I can handle going out alone.
I strut into my living room and switch on my silver crystal globe light that sits on my mahogany end table in my living room. I always leave one light on when I exit. The idea of coming home to a dark house scares me. I stride to the door and flick off the overhead lights and pull the door shut. My key slides easily into the hole and I turn it right. Righty tighty makes for a secure house. I tiptoe down the hickory stairs carefully, slow is key in these heels. I safely make it to my car and climb in. Immediately, I sync my phone to the radio. I need something blaring to listen to. ‘Sabotage’ by the Beastie Boys, oh yes…as the wwwka wwwka wwwka comes through the speakers, I back my car out of the garage. To the left, a guy is strolling up the sidewalk. A tall guy. A honk distracts me. In my rear-view window is a lady in a car ‒Shelly Washington, scratch that, the woman, because she doesn’t exactly fit the term of “lady” as evidenced right now. Her hand is glued to her horn and the other is giving me the finger, the middle finger. I shake my head. Nice, Lauren, go with nice. I wave at her and give her the thumbs-up. Like I’m saying, “Hey cool, thanks,” but really my thumbs-up means, “Why are you such a beotch?”
I ease up on the brake and continue to pull out of my garage, then I put the car in gear and drive out of our shared parking lot. Not everyone has a garage in our community. I can still hear Shelly’s horn as I pull out on to the main road which is next to our neighborhood. Neighborhood, yes what a nice neighborhood, with such sweet and patient people. Well, some of them are nice like Mrs. Mullins who always offers to water my plants when I’m gone, but I really think she wants to rummage through my things. I’ve seen her more than once going through the trash. Not the type of dumpster diving for big items. No, actual digging through the bags of trash. Trash which has used coffee filters and banana peels. It’s not like she is looking for anything of monetary value, because sitting right next to the bags she was digging through, was a good looking dresser. A piece of furniture which I had my eye on. I was waiting for her to leave the scene. I could have grabbed it. But I didn’t want to disrupt her pillaging of the trash bags. I’m not sure if she would have minded if I interrupted her dumpster diving, but I wanted to show respect for whatever she was doing. I’m not sure if it was for a living or what.
Of course Bob Dickenson didn’t wait or care about Mrs. Mullins and walked right out to the pile and picked up the dresser and carried it into his house. It would have made an additional storage piece for me. It was perfect for a DIY project. The type of project I could have pinned on Pinterest. And all of my plans for the dresser disappeared as Bob closed his door. It’s not like any of us can’t afford to buy brand-new furniture, but there is a difference between brand-new furniture and solid wood furniture. Besides, I think it’s safe to say we are all part of the big DIY phase. I’ve seen Bob Dickenson come home with truckloads of furniture. I bet he sells his finished projects on Craigslist. He’s definitely a furniture flipper. I wouldn’t be surprised if he trolls the streets on garbage day grabbing up all types of things and then sells them. He’s always seemed to be one of those wheelin’ and dealin’ types.
Brrr, it is cold. I click the top of the circle with what looks more like a nine iron than a seat up a few notches. Come on, baby, bring on the heat! In the rear-view mirror there’s a guy who looks like Jack in the white car behind me. I shake my head. Obviously it’s not him. How could it be him? I shake my head at the nonsensicalness. My hair falls over my shoulder. I remember being in the car with him on the day we met. My hair was a wreck. I sigh. I need to get him out of my head. The light above turns green and I glance in the mirror again but the guy is out of my line of sight. Honk! Honk! Good grief, what’s with the horns today? I get it I’m on the east coast but this isn’t NYC where horns of various levels are blown all hours of the day and night. Further, where is everyone’s holiday spirit? People are being a bit on the rude side. I guess this comes along with the cynicism about Santa not being real.
I refuse to give up this idea. It’s possible. He could be real or at least the idea of him. I think people can be Santa and make special things happen for others. This year I’m not sure what I would ask for if given the opportunity. Of course world peace and to lose a few more pounds. But is there anything tangible I want or need? Something I can’t or haven’t bought for myself? The ceiling provides no answers. My lips purse, forming wrinkles. Wrinkles on my under-thirty-year-old self.
The route to Ravens is somewhat straightforward, not a bunch of twists and turns from my place. Surprisingly I find a parking spot pretty close to the entrance. A win for me. Especially since it’s a Friday night and I am alone. Being close to the entrance of a place at night is a big deal. I put my gear in park and turn the key to the right. I blow out through my mouth. I can do this. I rub my lips together and pull on the car handle to open myself into the dark parking lot. There are a few street lights, but not enough to provide a lit path to the front of Ravens. I click the button on my keys and the beep, beep noise goes off. Yes, my car is locked. I stride with confidence to the doors and take a deep breath. You can do this, Lauren. You’ve gone out alone before and, besides, Brianna did say she would arrive at some point. The freezing temperature forces me not to hesitate.
The metal is cold against my fingers as I push the door open. The heat from the bar blows across my face as I step in. This is my kind of place. It’s swanky, dim lights and low music. There are lots of ivory leather couches and jet-black suede chairs fitted with chrome legs all around the bar, giving the opportunity for good talks, and in the back of the place is a small dance floor. Maybe later I will do a few twirls around it. I smile, thinking about the last time Brianna and I danced together. We like to do our own version of Romy & Michelle’s “Kid ’N’ Play” number. It’s choreographed well and we always get a few cheers from the crowd and several rounds of drinks offered.
Since I’m alone, I head for the bar. Obviously, I wouldn’t sit on a big couch by myself. The last time I sat at a big couch alone in a bar I could practically hear the pitiful chatter about me. As if I had been stood up by my date. If they only knew the reality. The only date to ever stand me up was at the airport. I shake my head and purse my lips. Don’t go there, Lauren. I’m about to grab a seat when my arm is being pulled. I turn around. I’m ready to go full ninja on whoever is trying to accost me in a public place.
“Lauren! I’m so glad you came.” Brianna grabs me in a tight squeeze. I sigh and hug her back and then drop my hands down to her arms. She is dressed like a fashion model as usual, with her bright-emerald-green cocktail dress with the perfect opal bauble necklace, accompanied by her new Brian Atwood color-blocked gladiator heels. I wish I had her shoe budget. But then again, she is a real estate agent in a hot market. Maybe with my new promotion I will be on the same level of Brianna with her shopping sprees. Ha, probably not but one can dream.
“Where’s Owen?”
“He’s over there,” Brianna points to the far corner of the room. Her shiny raven hair swings as she turns her head. Owen is wearing his office attire, he’s a stock broker for a big firm. He is a few years older than us, but no real signs of gray yet. Although, if I were in that line of business with the type of stress he encounters, I think I would look like Meryl Streep in 101 Dalmatians. I’m sure when I go gray it will look similar with those chunky stripes. Except I will color it. My hair stylist had the gall to tell me the other day that he found a gray. I almost cried in the chair. He must have sensed my concern and changed his story to it being a blond hair and then dropped the evidence before I could inspect it myself.
“We got a table, I told him about how we were going to hang out tonight and he said it was