“Shame on you, Robin,” giggled Kitty.
“I never thought of it, but you’re right, Robin. Let’s see; there’s John the Baptist, and John who wrote the Bible, and John of the Apocalypse and …”
“Never mind, Sharon, let’s just get a drink,” Kitty dropped the subject.
She reached out and touched Sharon’s and Robin’s hands.
It always amazed the friends that they always had things to say. Maybe not extraordinary conceits to throw light on the void, but conversations, at times, above typical rich ladies gossip. It was not uncommon of them to proudly attack the unfamiliar.
“You know, fellow Americans, we should all be very happy because we are all very successful millionaires. And more importantly, we’ve never had to struggle to be successful. That’s why we don’t have to prove ourselves; we are born successful millionaires-asses, with beautiful assesses,” laughed Robin, who had a tendency to laugh at her own coarse humor.
“It would have been nice if Myrna was with us right now,” said Kitty trying to tone down the subject. Sometimes Robin’s humor was a bit too unpolished for ladies.
“And maybe that’s why poor Myrna is no longer with us. They say that even though her father sold a lot of insurance on the internet, he wasn’t very fond of Myrna and left her very little money and that’s why she married a poor dentist,” said Robin.
“Mr Lawson sold real estate and he made a lot of money, Robin. And after her brother committed suicide, Myrna inherited everything,” said Kitty. “Of course she isn’t as rich as you, but then who is; but she’s rich enough not to have to cook every day, sorry Sharon.”
“She says she forgives Phil but will forever hate him for dumping her,” said Sharon.
“Which definitely smacks at a major paradox,” said Robin, “for how could she forgive her husband and not love him? Doesn’t forgiveness come parcelled with love?”
“Poor Alice, she died of a broken heart too,” continued Kitty in memory of Myrna’s angelic mother. “They say that life is all patterns.”
“I wonder if Justine ever thinks of how poor they are,” Sharon’s mind relentlessly lamenting Justine’s pregnancy predicament. She thought it “awful” and “stupid girl.”
“Well, it has nothing to do with us anyway,” said Kitty. “You know Myrna was always careful to sidestep any soul searching stuff.”
“It might have burst the dam,” said Robin.
“You are blessed to have such a loving husband as your David, Robin,” Sharon enviously complimented her friend. “He is a giving person, volunteering so much of his time, as the Lord would have us all do. He is so fortunate to have found contentment in his life, thanks to you, Robin.”
There were times when Sharon showed a very keen sense of sarcasm. Robin wasn’t sure if this wasn’t one of those times. It wasn’t; Sharon meant the compliment.
“And he’s soooo good looking,” Robin mockingly blew the words like cigarette smoke into the Beverly Hills expensive air trying to neutralize Sharon’s words.
“Yes, he really does have the love magic, doesn’t he Robin,” said Kitty. “And he is soooohhh good looking, and never seems to get old …”
“Well, you two, sometimes I think you two love handsome David more than I do, which is a waste of time on your part, because everyone knows that David and I are lovers forever young,” Robin smothered the words with the fine cabernet. It was delicious and smooth as it travelled down the throat; not a hint of tartness.
“Remember Robin, first you love the Lord, God, then you love your husband, as you would love yourself; but always God first,” Sharon reminded her friends.
“You can’t go wrong with that,” quickly interjected Kitty. “But always remember the first time.”
“Where the hell is that Dago waiter?” whispered Robin.
The friends were now slightly buzzed.
“Let’s switch to that white dry Camillet Bordeaux, in the meantime,” more calmly called Robin, as she tried to adjust to the quick presence of the rushed maître de.
“No, let’s have more red wine this week,” sharply cut in Sharon. She was determined on the red and was not about to be derailed by anyone this day.
“Why bother, they’re all the same,” smiled Robin trying not to appear agitated.
“Just for me, Robin, let’s celebrate with a red today,” insisted Sharon humbly.
“OK. Make it a blinding red and bring us some blindfolds,” said Robin as she turned to the maître de and twisted her lips to mildly protest Sharon’s insistence for a red.
“Except for Sharon; she has her darkest shades on already. She views the world from a monk’s dark wine cellar with her shades,” Kitty shushed a quirky smile.
“Make it a bottle of your finest red Bordeaux,” continued Sharon, more determined, “and I don’t care about the price. Do you have a thick Bordeaux?”
“A bloody thick Bordeaux from the finest vineyards of Bordeaux just for you, Mrs Merker,” smiled the maître.
“I don’t mind the Bordeaux,” said Kitty, “but no shades for me. I like to see what I’m drinking. I also like the color red, fiery red, like the dark red poppies of the field ….”
“We’re talking about wine, Kitty.”
“Color is what we like, and being a long-time good friend, red we shall all have, forever and ever, Amen,” smiled Sharon.
“You know what they say about color, Robin? Don’t knock it till you try it,” Kitty tried to show Robin that she could keep a secret.
“Naughty, naughty, Kitty,” smiled Sharon. “Have either of you ever tried it, Robin?”
“Sharon, Robin’s spent two years in Ethiopia, duh,” said Kitty.
The topic of race was always a bit discomforting; so they quickly skipped over it.
“What’re you going to have, Sharon,” said Robin.
“I’ll have what Sharon has,” said Kitty; food wasn’t all that important.
“Kitty, you’d try lamb’s brains if Sharon ordered them for you,” huffed Robin who was taking out her anger at Kitty for the Bordeaux that Sharon had ordered. “Go ahead and ask Sharon to order you some brains. It’s on the menu.”
“Just like you eat lamb’s balls you order all the time, Robin. Ugh! If you like balls so much you should order bull’s balls.” Kitty smiled into the distance.
“I like sweet breads like any other healthy woman,” said Robin, carefully acknowledging her haute cuisine preferences while also blushing her high cheeks. “And by the way, their proper name is mountain oysters around these parts. Have you ever had them around these parts, Sharon?” She quickly recovered into the warmth of comradery.
“Only while they were still hanging, I bet,” said Kitty.
“No, really, Robin, do you use knife and fork with them?” asked Sharon pretending innocence. “Grilled, sautéed, a la stir-fried …?”
“Stop it, Sharon; you’re cracking me up,” said Kitty.
“Such daintiness; you’re so damn fastidious in your personal tastes, aren’t you Sharon,” said Robin, who could knife with a smile. “I suppose if anyone knows about balls, it would be you, like footballs …”
“Did you guys know that orchids means balls, as in testicles,” said Kitty, again calming the storm that sometimes sneaks in when the conversation turns to rambling personal.
“Kitty, maybe you shouldn’t have any of the Bordeaux today. You seem testy enough already,” Robin fondly smiled at her friend.
No matter what Kitty said, the best of friends knew that it was free of storms.
“I bet Sharon could finish off a couple of bull’s orchids all by herself,” Kitty dawdled aimlessly among the trifling.
“We will all partake of the red Bordeaux,” Sharon gently put her hands together in front of her as if to offer a prayer.
“Fuck it, Sharon, there’s no going b
ack. Let’s just enjoy our time here. It’s a privilege being part of Beverly Hills, just like the hillbillies,” Robin cut in. She suspected that Sharon was about to go off the track again. She wanted to hug her but not in public.
Sharon was suddenly no longer interested in what Robin and Kitty thought about bulls’ balls, or had to say about silly, girly things, and so she mentally dropped out of their mindless exchanges. This immediately became apparent to Kitty and Robin and for a moment the two friends looked at each other and tried to guess what Sharon might be up to, first insisting on the red, then holding hands, then dropping out, but searching the thought wasn’t important since the wine was great. It was the call for more wine and not the prayer stance of holding hands that held the girls’ afternoon attention. It wasn’t the first time that Sharon had reached out to hold hands, so they were used to it. Ill-mannered as the thought might be, it was Sharon’s flamboyant tits that made her good company, and not her holy demeanor which simply didn’t jibe with those breasts barely inside her Max Mara.
“Drink ye this red, for this is my blood,” Sharon opened her eyes to Heaven. She would be unstoppable now.
“Sharon, have you been shacking up with saints again?” said Kitty. It was an attempt at light heartedness that didn’t work this time.
“You buy and I’ll drink of this holy Bordeaux any time,” Robin expertly swirled the delicious blood in her mouth.
Sharon, more than ever, became convinced that her friends needed help. Once again they were blathering on, without purpose, to nowhere in particular, Lord help them. She would have to interfere and get them back on the right track.
“The thought occurred to me,” said Kitty, “if lamb’s balls are called sweet breads, is there a special name for ewe’s udders?”
“There is for Sharon’s,” laughed Robin.
“And, more importantly, are they edible?” inquired Kitty.
“Well, Kitty, I’ve never seen any kind of tits as an entry on a menu, though I’m sure Sharon’s are very edible, probably most rare,” said Robin snapping her mouth for a huge bite.
“Most succulent,” said wide-eyed Kitty.
Sharon finished her glass of red, gave a side glance at Robin’s shy breasts and uttered, “You wish you had tits like mine, Robin.”
“A lot of good they do you, Sharon,” said Robin, tit for tat.
The thought of Kitty speculating about ewe’s tits, and Robin wondering whether her tits were gourmet entrees, made Sharon blush and her breasts inside her brazier suddenly swelled purple. She privately mused at her reaction to her friends’ humor, and like an adolescent girl in heat, the intensity of the feeling radiating from her breasts startled her. Hard as it was for her to admit it, ever since that day on the bus, her tits ruled. It was strange how on occasions like this one, with hot-like flashes flooding sensual emotions, her thoughts always travelled to the boy on the bus who first made her aware of her breasts. How could she feel so hot and bothered at a mere long ago reference? She took a drink of water to cool down, away from the wine, but her mind’s ecstasy was still making her blush hot. She was fast losing touch with her surroundings over a silly reference to her breasts, and she struggled to regain control of herself. Everything was becoming a simmering desert yellow wave, the air too hot and dry, catching her short of breath. Her whole body, especially her belly and the inside of her thighs were profusely perspiring. She lowered her head slightly and dabbed her upper lip that was wet from tiny drops of perspiration. Slight nausea surfaced in her unsettled stomach and she put her hand over her mouth and gently bit the inside of her cheek to keep from sliding into a faint. She was afraid to look towards her friends least they think badly of her, though to Robin and Kitty her behavior seemed Sharon normal-abnormal and they didn’t bother to ask. She continued to lower her head slowly as if to look into her lap, and her mind inexplicably went into another private swoon, the heat in her face reminding her of her morning’s shower. Spinning head still down, she saw herself standing under the hot water and she suddenly raised her mystified face up to meet the splashing water. Weirdly all in her hot brain now, the shower was pulsating huge gushes of water on her face until it got unbearably hot and she gulped for air and she turned the knob for cold water and relief.
During this strange semi-trance, Robin and Kitty continued their happy-talk chitchat forgiving the turbulence in Sharon’s silent misconduct. Acting as if nothing unusual was happening, they thought it best not to say anything until the empty stares from Sharon’s eyes filled up again.
Other customers in the restaurant witnessed the bizarre behavior, saw that the two companion friends had everything under control, and decided not to be bothered by the theatrics. In the crazy world we live in, to flash bipolar was, like, statistically cool these days.
Seated among the snobbish Beverly Hills restaurant crowd, Sharon again shut her eyes to sooth the din all around her and under the muting cool water of her hallucinating mind, her dizziness began to retreat to normal.
Under a different influence now, she thought it strange that Robin should have alluded to the Da Vinci’s Last Supper in her earlier moment of Bordeaux pique. It was as if her intention was to bring the Lord’s Last Supper to their attention, comparing it to their insignificant luncheon, perhaps, and by some extension, wishing it to shine some light into their dreary lives. What a lovely reference to bring the Holy Icon of the Last Supper to their table at the Seven Seas Restaurant. Robin’s indirect reference was surely an act of charity, a gift from God. The importance was the presence of God; the Seven Seas venue was irrelevant, thought Sharon. The benevolence of a sermon really doesn’t matter whether it occurs on Golgotha or in a Beverly Hills restaurant; it’s the good news of the message that’s important. She and her friends were simply God’s instruments of tuning in to eternal love. Allusions to powerful images of, well, God and Da Vinci’s intentions, just don’t surface so serenely, as Robin had just casually done, unless inspired by, well, God, as Sharon was surmising. How divine of Robin, thought Sharon. How beautiful of her to bring up Jesus’ last supper with His disciples, who were His friends, except for one.
Ever since her desert dream that was filled with magical chants from monks and angels, Sharon had been trying to figure out a way to recapture the moment and share it with her friends. She was certain that the dusty desert habitat of the handsome monk had been a glimpse of Heaven, for the sensation of the dream was still Heavenly, and that she had now been called on to share the privilege.
Curiously, now out of her deep shower delusion and absorbed by Robin’s inspired stillness, with trepidation Sharon searched for the crucial moment to share the joy, with her friends, of the bread and wine, which were of the body of Christ. In humility, with eyes lowered and with love in her heart Sharon most softly, most clearly, recited of Jesus to her best friends from her beloved days of youth. In a soft voice full of delight she shared with her friends the love that came from Jesus.
Drink ye all of it;
This is my Blood of the New Testament,
Which is shed for you and for many,
For the remission of sins.
Away from the Heavenly desert and back into the posh world of Beverly Hills, Kitty and Robin could not deny their ears. Speechless they stared at each other. Once again their beloved friend had transcended well above the wonders of their easy fashionable world. Not knowing what to do or say, they made funny faces at each other, looked around the restaurant, and wished for an alarm to go off and wake them up.
“Sharon, are you having fucking problems with Hank again and it shows. Is he not screwing you enough, dear?” said Robin ready to slap some sense into her friend.
Sharon was lost in her Eucharistic moment and heard nothing of what Robin had said.
“This vampire talk has to stop or I’m leaving,” once again threatened Robin.
“They do say that red wine does wonders for your heal
th,” said Kitty.
It was an unorthodox moment and anything said would have been wacky.
“Where is that wine?” puckered back Robin. “Get another red.”
“Good for the heart, say the French, and obviously good for the soul according to Sharon,” and Kitty, who then took Sharon’s hand.
“Red makes you more sociable, Sharon,” kindly smiled Robin, who then also reached out and gently touched Sharon’s other hand.
There was only one explanation: their beloved friend Sharon was in dire need of professional psychiatric help.
“Sharon dear, you need help. It’s either psychiatric help for you, or losing you to the priests,” said Kitty. “And I’m serious. Man, snap out of it!”
“We love you, Sharon,” said Robin not knowing what else to say.
They loved her and wished they could help but didn’t know how. Besides, now was not the right moment to dig deep into the psyche and neither of them had schooling in psychology.
“Robin, we’ll just have to put up with her bullshit this afternoon, and she’ll have to find her own way out of her pathetic repressed sexuality,” hushed Kitty.
“Go fuck yourself, Sharon,” said Robin and the two friends laughed at her expense.
Extending herself beyond her friends’ best wishes, Sharon continued to focus on the words in her now translucent mind and quietly began to reflect on their meaning. She wondered what Robin had meant when she previously had referred to “bloody red?” Not so clear the bloody red. She opened her eyes wide and there definitely was ambiguity in “bloody red” when referring to wines. Her mind retrieved those simple words in syncopated bursts – blood, bloody, red, blood, bloody, red - until in unison, like a jolt to the frontal lobes, she felt their powerful meaning. Instantaneously her heart swelled with harmonized rhythmic composure at the profound beauty and meaning of Jesus’ last words to humanity just before His crucifixion. And since time immemorial it has been the true prophet’s burden to speak his vision of Heaven to the troubled world, so it befell on Sharon this day to share the message of Jesus with her beloved friends. And what better way than with Jesus’ own words? It was all so obvious. Suddenly, she stood up in her place at the table, steadfast and seemingly in full control. It was as if the Lord Jesus was there with her, directing His eternal words through her as she now softly staring into the distance pronounced them to her friends,
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