Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  “I might get lucky. You know how that goes.” I tried to sound flip, but heard the edge in my voice as soon as the words flew out. Shit, I promised myself I wouldn’t make any reference to her affair, or rather, the affair she’s not having. “You know what I mean,” I added quickly. “We might have a good time. Not a sleazy good time, but a good conversation good time.”

  “Don’t forget Daddy has to take Grandpa to the doctor tomorrow. You need to be here.”

  I stopped in the den where my father was watching TV and asked him if I could take his Mercedes. “If you fill it with gas. But I need it first thing in the morning to take your grandfather to the doctor. And I’d really appreciate your going with me.”

  “I’ll be here. I shouldn’t be later than midnight.”

  “Frannie, I’m serious.” He dug into his pocket. “Promise me.”

  “Back off, Daddy-man. I’ll be here. Jesus, you’d think I was planning on spending the night with this guy.” I tugged on my new underwear, smiling to myself.

  “You’re sexy.” Bryan leans across the table, swaying and slurring. “Very sexy.”

  “Don’t forget funny.” I laugh. “And sweet. You forgot to say sweet.”

  I curl my toes. My mother should see me now, drinking with a handsome doctor who’s hanging on my every word. I’m so happy. Happy, happy, happy. I say it so many times that soon it doesn’t sound like a word. I chewed a Valium in the car and now I feel delightful despite my bodysuit unsnapping every time I lean forward.

  Tingling, I teach Bryan how to drink margaritas. “You start with the salt.” I lick the rim slowly. I let my tongue linger on the glass, then run it along my bottom teeth. As he watches, I slowly suck my bottom lip. I lick my fingertips and suck them slowly, one at a time.

  Watching me, he croaks, “And then?”

  “You take a big gulp and feel the burn as it slides down your throat.” I tilt my head and gulp the drink. I feel my hair, long and full against my back. His eyes haven’t left my face. “Suck the ice,” he whispers. “Suck the ice for me.”

  I tilt the glass and a lone piece of ice slides into my mouth. I stick out my tongue and the cube dissolves. “There,” I say softly. “I sucked it.”

  He licks his forefinger then runs it along my lower lip. A quiet rush fills my head. I love margaritas. I shake my hair, feeling so beautiful I can’t believe I’m me. My thighs are taut in my leggings, my arms muscular underneath my bodysuit, which could be snapping open at this very second, but I can’t tell and I don’t care. I’m happy. Finally.

  I hum idly with the jukebox as Bryan stares soulfully into my eyes. “The minute I saw you,” he says, “I thought: that girl is sexy. You just exude sex, I swear.”

  I smile. “I’m just your average red-blooded, All-American girl.”

  “I love American girls.”

  “Have you had other kinds?”

  He grins. “A gentleman never tells.”

  I want to dance. He is so handsome, so utterly handsome. I wonder if he likes me. Oh, but he must. I’m in control, this is my bus, and I’m driving. I imagine him pressing his mouth against mine, his tongue in my mouth; warm, juicy, and sweet like caramel candy. I hope he means what he’s saying; I wonder if he’s falling in love. “Do you date a lot of girls?” I ask playfully.

  He shrugs. “A few here and there.”

  “Pretty girls?”

  “Always.”

  “Anyone special?”

  “Just you.” He rubs a piece of ice against my lips. I flush with desire, a feeling so overwhelming I almost fall over. “I love your mouth,” he says softly and rubs another piece so slowly it melts in his fingers. I lean forward so he can kiss me, but a couple passing by accidentally jostle him and he jerks up.

  “Sorry,” the man says, holding his date’s elbow. She stares at Bryan closely. A lock of golden hair hides one of her eyes and she grins at him, the corners of her mouth raised suggestively. The man propels her away.

  Bryan rubs his head, watching the woman walk away. He plays with a plastic stirrer silently, as if contemplating something important. I shift in my seat. “Do you know her?” I ask finally.

  “Who?”

  “The blond woman. It seemed like you knew her.” He shrugs and tells me he’s never seen her before, but he glances over my shoulder, as if looking for her while he talks. “She was pretty,” I say.

  “I didn’t notice.” I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. I roll my glass between my palms, but it slips and I lurch to catch it. Then, when I look into it, I notice that all the ice has melted.

  “Is something wrong?” The music has stopped between songs. My voice booms like a whine. “You seem like something is bothering you.”

  “What could be bothering me?” He’s edgy. I wonder if I said something to make him mad.

  “Have you ever been to Europe?” I ask. “Hey, I know, let’s take a trip sometime. Let’s just pack a bag and go to Italy.” I’m spinning, and I hear myself talking too fast. My heart rocks like a ship on the open sea. “I’m a spontaneous kind of girl. I could take off. I could.” Bryan looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “I don’t complain like a lot of girls.” And I can cook and clean and I make all my own clothes. Jesus, Frannie, shut up. There’s a dreadful lull. Unable to help myself, I blurt, “Do you ever think about getting married?”

  “Not usually.”

  Oh God. Oh God. How could I ask that? And everything was going so well. “I don’t think about it myself,” I lie. “But my friends do. They’re at that age.”

  “My friends do everything to avoid it. I guess they’re at that age, too.” He laughs so I lean forward. “I think you’re so handsome,” I tell him. I know I must look like a puppy in heat but I want him to kiss me so we can get this show back on the road.

  He’s suddenly solemn. “I’m nothing special, Frannie—not what you think.”

  I try to joke. “Then what are you?” I use a straw to outline my name in sugar. I get as far as F-R-A before the sugar runs out.

  “You ask a lot of questions,” he says abruptly.

  “I was only kidding. Don’t be so serious. Shelly’s doing great,” I say, changing the subject. “She’s getting out of the hospital soon.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Frannie. I’ve seen what happens to these girls when they get close to checking out. It’s their most vulnerable time.”

  Abruptly, I stand. The snaps of my bodysuit fly open. “You’re talking about my sister!” I squeeze my legs together. “You haven’t even seen her! She’s doing great!” I reach for my backpack, and my bodysuit creeps up my ass. Soon it will be bunched like a tire around my waist. “I’m going home,” I say firmly, but I linger, watching him.

  He looks up at me, then grabs my hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such an asshole. I’m having a difficult time with one of my patients.” He brushes my hair off my shoulder. “I don’t mean to take it out on you.” He pulls me close. “You’re much too pretty for that. I’m happy you’re here,” he whispers. “Please don’t leave me.” I slowly slide onto my stool. Maybe I should be more understanding. He is a doctor after all.

  Bryan pulls my hand. “We should go. I told some friends we would meet them.” He tugs playfully. “Come on. It’ll be fun.” What about dinner? I think. What happened to dinner?

  Before we leave, I fix my bodysuit in the ladies’ room and tell myself over and over that he wants me to stay. Please don’t leave me. How could I leave you? I put lipstick on and flush with desire again, imagining his fingers stroking my lips. You have the most incredible mouth. I stare at my reflection, trying to imagine myself looking fabulously pretty, but all I see is the woman with golden hair smiling at Bryan, her breath escaping from her parted lips with the hint of a kiss. I blink and look at my face again. Don’t leave me, I think.

  “Do you want another drink?” Bryan asks. We’re huddled in a dark and dirty bar that’s packed with people. I’m sitting all the way a
t the end. It’s amazing how quickly a good buzz can sour. I know I’m still drunk, but the tingle is gone and the fog has rolled in and I feel clammy and bloated and I think I might throw up if anyone jostles me.

  I tell him I want a margarita. I had high hopes of making a nice impression on his friends, but they’re too busy checking out women to acknowledge me. All I can do now is resurrect the more pleasant part of my buzz and not make a fool of myself. I am jonesing for a cigarette so bad. “Margaritas are my favorite beverage,” I say. I lean back too far and quickly catch myself before toppling off my stool.

  Bryan chews on the end of a straw and winks at his friends. “I’d rather drink Scotch.” He smiles, but his tone is clipped. I wonder if he’s moving into another bad mood he can blame on his patients. Well he can fuck himself. At this point, I could give a shit if his patients stood in a circle, sang “Kumbaya,” and slit their wrists.

  Bryan pats my arm. “This is Richard.” Richard holds up a hand. He’s short, with one eyebrow that stretches across his forehead like a furry shelf, and an eye twitch he can’t control. He says something I can’t hear, so I nod and smile.

  I try to get Bryan’s attention. “Do you usually date women who drink Scotch?” I imagine him fucking the golden-haired woman. She’s lying on a gurney, her black skirt hiked around her waist, her naked legs kicking the air. I wipe away a bead of perspiration. My bodysuit, which unsnapped twenty minutes ago, has rolled up so far the crotch hangs out like a tail. My leggings feel really tight, like the material is bunched around my thighs, creating ripples of fat.

  “I date a lot of women.” Bryan stares into his glass. “Variety is the spice of life, don’t you think?” Richard, whom I hate, snickers.

  “I think variety is overrated.” I try to sound flip but I feel sick. The Weight Watchers lasagna I ate earlier sits inside me like a cube of concrete. I put my hand on Bryan’s arm to steady myself but he pulls away. Tears burn in my eyes but I refuse to cry. I should leave. We didn’t have sex and I feel like shit. Bryan and Richard are talking, but all I can hear is the roar of the drunk inside my ears and the blare of the jukebox in the background. I lean forward. My head rushes to meet me.

  I admit that I’ve never had much luck with sex. I lost my virginity in high school to Dylan McGuire, who had tattoos and was rumored to smack his mother, but whom I loved as much as my mother hated. “You’ll never go anywhere if you stay with that creep,” she said, which I find completely ironic because Dylan is now a bond trader on Wall Street. I, on the other hand, ended up in a dirty duck apron serving Mr. and Mrs. McGuire plates of fried cheese at Rascals. Used to serve, I correct myself.

  The first time Dylan and I did it, I was really stoned. Part of me wanted to do it because I really loved Dylan, but the main reason was because being a virgin at seventeen was a bore, with all the stopping and starting and begging that went on, not to mention the endless discussions with Abby about what to do when. Dylan and I wrestled on the couch. The drugs wore off by the time we were naked. I stared at his head lolling between my breasts like a huge medallion, and squeezed my eyes closed, wishing he’d go away. He dug his fingers into me and I was really dry but afraid I’d sound whiny if I said something. I felt a pressure and a stab and wetness and I was about to tell him he was hurting me when he shuddered and fell into me, still kneading my breasts like they were dials on his car stereo. My head ached from banging it against the arm of the couch and my bare ass was raw from the tweed. There was a puddle of liquid between my legs so I sat on my T-shirt, aware that I was bleeding on the fabric. Dylan propped himself up and muttered, “How was that, Frannie baby?” I wanted to say something wildly sophisticated but instead blurted, “God, that was fast. Is that it?” Dylan got up and left without speaking to me and it was several weeks before I heard from him again.

  I look up. Bryan and his friends are staring at a woman at the end of the bar. She’s leggy and exotic, and from where I’m sitting, I don’t see any signs of a rolled-up bodysuit underneath her clingy black tube dress. “…break her in half,” one of the guys mutters. He smiles sheepishly but I shrug, trying to be a good buddy. Bryan says something and they all laugh. Very nauseous, I lay my head down, wishing I could drift off.

  Bryan tells me he’ll be right back. I watch him saunter away, and I think I see him sidle up to the exotic woman with the power body. I squint to see if she presses herself against him when he passes, if he smiles at her, cocks his head to say hello, holds her hand a beat too long.

  Richard leans low. “Bryan and I have been friends since med school.”

  I sit up. “Are you a psychiatrist, too?”

  He shakes his head. “Hematology and oncology–AIDS and cancer.” He signals for the bartender.

  I’m dying to ask a thousand questions about Bryan but don’t. Men hate desperate women, that much I know, thanks to the talk I had with my mother when she gave me the pamphlet Your Changing Body a hundred years ago. “How long have you been seeing Bryan?” Richard asks. I tell him that we’ve been out a few times, trying to appear as if Richard is the most riveting conversationalist and I’m having the best time just talking to him.

  “So what do you do, Fran?” He waves to a redhead across the bar who smiles and waves. “Sorry.” He turns back. “What do you do?” he asks again.

  I think of my Rascals apron, crumpled and unused, stinking up my closet. “I’m an equities trader,” I say solemnly.

  With that, Richard launches into a high-pitched discussion of his latest investment strategy. It’s actually quite fascinating, the way this ridiculous guy with a unibrow has to tell me everything he’s ever heard about Wall Street. As if oncology isn’t enough. I wonder where Bryan is, if he has the exotic woman pressed against the wall, her long legs wrapped around his waist.

  Richard’s still talking. “So what do you think about Pfizer? I mean, as a way to go?”

  “Pfizer?”

  “Pfizer Pharmaceuticals. You know, for long-term growth. You have any tips?”

  “Don’t plant corn in the winter,” I say just as Bryan returns. He whispers something to Richard before he sits down. I take out my lipstick and run it across my mouth. Bryan doesn’t look at me. He’s sitting close enough to touch, though, and I lean forward and press my bloodred lips across the back of his starched white shirt. Surprisingly, the impression my mouth leaves is that of a smile.

  “I have to go to the ladies’ room,” I announce. I clutch my bodysuit and pick my way through the crowd. I wish there was a hole in the floor I could fall through so Bryan and his Rat Boy buddies don’t discuss the size of my ass as they watch me waddle away.

  I stumble to the back of the bar, and feel myself about to throw up. Miraculously, the bathroom is empty as I push my way in, head bent so I won’t heave before reaching the toilet. I kneel on the floor and let ’er rip, gagging so hard, I almost dislodge a tonsil. My forehead is damp with sweat and my eyes fill with tears. I rest my face on the edge of the bowl and throw up again.

  After gagging and gasping and drooling, I feel a little better. I know I should go home, but I refuse to admit that things can’t be turned around. Please don’t leave me. Admit it. This guy is an asshole. Please don’t. I need to be more perky. That’s what he liked about me. A string of saliva hangs off my chin. Leave me.

  I hear voices as people walk in and out. I try to straighten up, but I’m so weak, I crouch with my elbows on the toilet. “Shit, that’s my beeper.” I listen for a second, wondering why there’s a guy in the ladies’ room. “Who the fuck is beeping me?” It’s definitely a guy talking. In fact, it sounds like Richard, the Michael Milken of Medicine. What the hell is he doing in here?

  “You gotta call in, Rich. If you don’t, they’ll beep Davenport and I don’t want to be around tomorrow when you try to explain you were too fucked up to find a phone.”

  It is Richard. Oh shit. I lean forward. Shit, I’m in the men’s room.

  “In a minute. Check this out. Frankel calls me in on
a consult, right? White lady, mid-thirties, IV drug user, end-stage AIDS, metastatic breast cancer. She’s in septic shock. They’re measuring her life span in days. So whaddaya think I say?”

  “I don’t know, asshole. What did you say?”

  “Oak casket. Brass handles.” They laugh and I panic. I have to get out of here.

  They’re obviously waiting for the stall because they keep talking. I rise from the floor and just as I am about to push on the door, I hear Richard ask, “What’s wrong with Bryan’s date?” I flush. I’m Bryan’s date. That’s me! Oh God, God, I promise I’ll just go home if they don’t say anything mean. “She seems like a bitch.” Fuck you, Richard, you furry fucking Rat Boy. FUCK YOU.

  “She’s wasted. I think she’s kinda cute. I’d do her.” For a second, my heart warms. He likes me, I think.

  “Did Bryan tell her about Leslie?”

  “Would you?” They both laugh. Suddenly, Richard bangs on the door. “Come on, man. What’s going on?” I grunt, hoping it’s deep enough. “Shit,” says Richard, “some guy’s hurling. It stinks in here. Fuck it.”

  I hear the sound of paper ripping, then two snorts. “Good shit,” one says, and the other obviously agrees because they snort again. Trying to steady myself, I stand up and use wads of toilet paper to wipe my face and hands. I fold the snap part of my bodysuit under and tuck it in my underwear. One of the guys raps again. “Jesus Christ, man!”

  Straightening my shoulders, I open the stall door as wide as I can. I walk out and look right into Richard’s eyes. “Hey, Dick!” I say, flashing a killer smile. “Who’s Leslie?”

  In front of Bryan’s apartment, I cross and uncross my legs three times. I relax as he jiggles the key, then feel the pressure again and try to do the dance without Bryan knowing. The feeling passes, but only briefly because my bladder tightens and I squeeze my legs together, leaking droplets of urine. I rush inside when Bryan opens the door, then race into the bathroom where I pull the crotch of my bodysuit, situate myself, and release my muscles, the stream hitting the water even before I sit down.