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You shouldn't have fallen for her.
Bobbie reasons to herself, over a turkish kebab with fries - because it's 2am and she is in desperate need for something to eat. But the bench is cold beneath her bare legs, and the diner buzzes with drunken patrons and a waitress who like her, can't even keep her eyes open to focus.
Ding. The buzz of an oven, a microwave.
But you can't stop thinking about her cold smile, or her dusted pink cheeks, a facade of blush. maybe it's genuine embarassment, because she can't stand being near you. She thinks again, stirring her fork counter clockwise,, stabbing at a stray piece of meat. At least she finds you funny.
But maybe it's the drinks. Hoanne is always under the influence one way or another, with her grey streaked hair and her charismatic eyes, and the vodka stinger she holds between an index, middle and thumb.
It's beyond charming, but the words don't flow and Bobbie won't admit she's started to hold her glasses the same way.
I adore you. Bobbie imagines saying. She wonders what it feels like to say it out loud, flowing out her mouth like smoke. Or soap, because it's too sappy and bubbly for someone like joanne, who balks at public intimacy and pretends to hurl if you kiss her.
Maybe she's jealous of larry. Or evidently wishes she were a man with more guts than balls.
Robert! It's a kind sort of name, and maybe Joanne would be more receptive to making it with someone who didn't look like a startling representation of an antelope high on adrenaline. Bobbie is nervous that way, but at least she understands and won't chide her for it.
But Joanne has yet to ask, and probably never will. What began as a quiet session of flirting over a round of vodka and bourbon (and she'd retch at the quality), Bobbie had crossed the line when she had quietly asked what Larry would think, and Joanne's simple reply was to walk out to have a cigarette.
She'd join her, despite not smoking, and they'd give each other stares as one did when in love with their best friend. They wouldn't end up talking about larry or the consequences of knowing. It would just be.
Perhaps Joanne wasn't even into women. Or she was a closeted lesbian. a —
Well. She couldn't say that word.
(It was one way of saying, or inferring, rather, why Joanne's marriages never worked out.)
Bobbie cleared her plate as slow as physically possible, and declared the food as 'lush,' because that was a phrase her english cousin had once used and she stuck to it.
And with a belly only half full with the insatiability of an avid New-Yorker, she'd spend the rest of her night trying to sleep amidst the burning heat, legs half tangled in the sheets.
Even with the aircon on and her skin bare to anyone who wanted to perceive her, Bobbie couldn't stop thinking about how nice it was to push your lips against a woman and enjoy it.
Namely with joanne, who smelled of nice perfume and wealth and the bitterness of citrus peels.
And she'd think about the time they kissed on the couch. on the corner of the lips, because Bobbie had turned her face too fast and prodded jo's face with her nose. And she'd laughed, because they had almost kissed, and she'd swear on her life to do it again, but properly.
If only.
But Joanne was unfortunately married, and somewhat dedicated to her husband. Bobbie couldn't wish them anything but respect, because it's not her place to lust after a wife who is as beautiful as the night sky, and who twinkles like a star with the brilliant rings on her fingers.
She pretends not to notice her wedding ring, which Joanne wears on nights at the bar when she is strangely sentimental, and complains about missing larry. Bobbie is careful to remind her that he is a thousand miles away out of state, probably still flying, and is probably thinking of her too.
But it's O.K, because Bobbie knows he's sleeping with other men, and pretends it doesn't bother her. A classic case of the closet-homosexual, or so she thought.
(Joanne is not like the other wives.)
She is at best, a cryptic woman with few words to give and a sly smile rarely ever shown. At her worst, she is still everything and a little bit more.
Bobbie turns her pillow onto the cold side, wishing Joanne were with her still, and not halfway across the city on the upper east side in Larry's townhouse apartment.
You're in love with a woman who won't reveal her age, but is probably nearly sixty, and who hates life probably as much as you do. She thinks again, raising her hand up and spreading it out. Bobbie wonders why joanne has never told her her age, and if the resulting 'fuck off' everytime she asks has anything to do with it. Maybe Joanne is infinitely more insecure than she lets out, and uses curse words as a mode of defence.
It's all in good spirits, though.
You need to give her a call tomorrow, because it's that special deal at that bar and you won't skip a night out with your best friend for the world. The voice in her head mentions again, and now that it's 4am again and the sun is rising, Bobbie can feel the heat slowly start to break.
And then you can ask if she wants to make it with you. And then she can say yes, or no, and you'll decline a threesome with Larry, because you don't really like him that way to begin with.
"Poor Larry," she mutters, turning over. It's too early for this, to think.
In the seconds it takes her to fall asleep, all she can think to dream about is Joanne, hallways and the nestling anticipation of seeing her again.
Jo. It's always been Jo.