Absinthe

by Winter Renshaw

Absinthe: My grandkids got me one of those iPad things for Christmas.

  Kerouac: How many grandkids do you have?

  Absinthe: Way too many. I was a bit of a floozy in my younger days, popping out babies left and right. I couldn’t help myself. They were so damn cute and so were the men. Sadly, I think I peaked in the 1940s. I never could resist a man in uniform! Those sailors with those little round hats got me every time. Never missed a Fleet Week!

  Kerouac: No regrets?

  Absinthe: No regrets.

  Kerouac: Seriously though. How old are you?

  Absinthe: Does it matter? Age is literally a number.

  Kerouac: It matters to me.

  Absinthe: How old are you?

  Kerouac: Didn’t you read my profile?

  Absinthe: No. I was too distracted by your horrendous screen name. Kerouac? Seriously?????

  Kerouac: On the Road is a classic.

  Absinthe: On the Road is shoddy drivel at best. Anyone who thinks otherwise doesn’t deserve the privilege of calling himself a reader.

  Kerouac: That’s the cool thing about being a reader though, YOU get to decide what you like and other people’s opinions don’t matter.

  Absinthe: Doesn’t make me judge you any less.

  Kerouac: How old are you?

  Absinthe: So you’re going to change the subject, just like that?

  Kerouac: Answer the fucking question.

  Absinthe: Oh, man. You said “fucking.” Are you pissed? Or trying to prove that you’re some big, bad alpha male who needs to be in control at all times?

  Kerouac: Not pissed. Just impatient.

  Kerouac: But control is a good thing. I like to be in control.

  Absinthe: Then that’s going to be a problem, because I like to be in control too.

  Kerouac: Your age, Absinthe.

  Absinthe: Old enough to drink.

  It’s not a lie. I mean, I might not be old enough to drink legally, but I’m still old enough to drink in the literal sense.

  Kerouac: That’s the best you can do?

  Absinthe: I need to keep a low profile.

  Kerouac: Are you someone important?

  Absinthe: You’re being sarcastic. Ass. And no, I’m not anyone important. I’m just me. And I want to keep a low profile because for all I know, you’re a creepy stalker.

  Kerouac: Even if I was a creepy stalker, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to locate you simply based on your age. I think you’re safe.

  Absinthe: Anyway, back to your horrible taste in literature …

  Kerouac: My extensive library collection would beg to differ.

  Absinthe: Oooh. You have a library. You must be fancy.

  Kerouac: Not fancy. Just well read.

  Absinthe: You know what would be really fucking hot?

  Kerouac: What?

  Absinthe: Sex in a library. A public library.

  Kerouac: Way to get to the point. I was content discussing great American writers of the 20th century for another hour, but this works too.

  Absinthe: If you could see me right now, I’m rolling my eyes at you. Don’t be lame. Just go with it. Tell me how we’d do it. Tell me what you’d do to me.

  Kerouac: What do you look like?

  Absinthe: Why?

  Kerouac: I need a visual. For my fantasy.

  Absinthe: Blonde hair. Green eyes. Big tits. Long legs. That work?

  Kerouac: Highly doubt that’s what you really look like, but okay.

  Absinthe: It’s true. Maybe one of these days, you’ll get to see for yourself.

  Kerouac: Doubtful. I have no intentions of ever meeting you.

  Absinthe: Why not??? Oh, shit. Are you married?!?

  Kerouac: No. Not married. Just a professional starting a new job in a new town.

  Absinthe: So, you just want phone sex …

  Kerouac: Yes.

  Absinthe: And no matter how hot and bothered I get you, you’ll never change your mind?

  Kerouac: Never.

  Exhaling, I rest my chin on my hand and glance away. I suppose if we’re never going to meet or know each other’s real names, I can be as dirty as I want to be with him. I can tell him everything without giving two shits about whether or not he’s going to judge me because it won’t fucking matter.

  Absinthe: Fine. Lay it on me. Tell me how you’d fuck me in a library.

  Kerouac: I’d make you wear a skirt.

  Absinthe: You’d MAKE me wear a skirt?

  Kerouac: Yes. I’d make you.

  Kerouac: By the way, you’re not wearing panties.

  Absinthe: Obviously.

  Kerouac: I’d take you to the F-K aisle, turn your back toward me, and spread your thighs. My hands would pull at the hem of your skirt, revealing your ass. If anyone walked by, they’d see my fingers trailing up your inner thighs and plunging into your wet pussy. You’d moan, and I’d cover your mouth. We have to be quiet.

  Absinthe: Damn, K. This is, um, good. Keep going.

  Kerouac: Your hips would buck against me. You’re so fucking hot you can’t even stand it, and you’re close, but I won’t let you cum unless you’re riding my cock. Pulling my fingers from your slit, I give you a taste before massaging your tits and pulling your body against mine. When you whimper and beg for me to fuck you, I’ll have to tease you first … I’ll have to remind you that I’m in control. Dragging the tip of my cock along your seam, I’ll slide my length inside you at the height of your anticipation.

  Absinthe: Go on…

  Kerouac: With your hands gripping the bookshelf and your hair gathered in my fist, I’ll fuck you like the dirty girl you are, demanding your silence and commanding your body in ways no other man has done before.

  Absinthe: Wait. How do you know what other men have done to me before?

  Kerouac: Seriously?

  Absinthe: Just kidding. No man has ever fucked me in a library, that right there probably puts you at the top of my list. Forgive me for interrupting you. Continue.

  Kerouac: Through the shelves, we see someone coming. The librarian. I press my thumb against your clit, circling it as I fuck you harder and faster, my cum jetting inside you as your body melts against mine, your pussy clenched in spasm. Pulling myself out of you, I zip my fly and you straighten your skirt. The librarian comes around the corner, giving us each an evil look. And then she carries on her way, none the wiser.

  Absinthe: Not bad.

  Kerouac: Not bad?

  Absinthe: Yeah. It wasn’t bad. I mean, I’ve been touching myself this whole time. And I came. Please tell me you’re not one of those guys who needs constant reassurance.

  Kerouac: I’m not.

  Absinthe: Good, because you won’t get it from me. If we ever fuck in real life, I’m not going to lie in your arms and cry because the experience moved my world. I’d probably climb off you, wipe your sticky semen out of my pristine vagina, and make myself a sandwich in your kitchen wearing your shirt.

  Kerouac: We’re never going to fuck in real life, so …

  Absinthe: Yes, K. You’ve made that clear. Thank you for the reminder though.

  Kerouac: Same time tomorrow?

  Absinthe: Oh, you got your rocks off and now you’re done with me?

  Kerouac: I ordered food. It just arrived.

  Absinthe: Sure.

  A picture fills our chat screen: white Styrofoam containers filled with pad thai noodles and spring rolls.

  Absinthe: You didn’t have to prove yourself. I was only fucking with you.

  Kerouac: Tomorrow? Seven pm?

  Absinthe: If you’re lucky.

  A knock at my door prompts me to shut the lid of my laptop, and before I get a chance to answer, Bree barges in.

  “Where’s my gold cross necklace?” she asks, her blue eyes wild and her tone accusatory.

  I lift my palms. “No clue.”

  “It was in my bathroom next to my sink this morning and now it’s gone. I need it. I have a test in fifteen minutes, and it’s my good luck charm
.”

  “You know good luck charms don’t actually work, right? It’s all in your head.”

  Her face is red, her lips shaky, and she begins rifling through my closet, through dresser drawers. Tossing throw pillows and dirty clothes off the floor, she turns my room upside down.

  “You took it. I know you did.” Bree points, wearing her mother’s scowl.

  “I can assure you, I didn’t touch your stupid necklace. Thing’s ugly anyway.” I roll my eyes. “What would I even do with it?”

  “I don’t know … pawn it?”

  I smirk. This girl has never even set foot in a pawnshop. She’s never known the burden of having to pawn your brand-new shoes for lunch money, which happened to me on more than one occasion, I might add.

  “A piece like that would get me eight, maybe nine dollars tops. Hardly worth the bus fare and the trip spent in the bad part of town,” I say.

  Her jaw falls. “That necklace is from Tiffany! It’s worth way more than eight dollars.”

  “I didn’t pawn it. I’m just saying, if I did, that’s probably all they’d give me for it,” I say.

  She stands at the foot of my bed, staring, jaw clenched. She wants, so badly, to pin this on me. More than likely the cleaning lady moved it today or it fell down the drain.

  “Don’t you have a test or something to get to?” I wave my hand, shooing her.

  Bree lets out a juvenile groan, her fists clenched, and then she spins to leave my room, her cheerleader ponytail bouncing with each stomp. She’d slam my door if she knew she wouldn’t get in trouble for it.

  Stupid twat.

  Lifting the laptop lid, I return to the chat.

  Kerouac has signed off.

  Chapter 4

  Ford

  The garage is filled with random paint cans and yard tools left by the previous owner. They were supposed to clear everything out before they signed the closing papers, but they must have conveniently forgotten a few things.

  Sweeping the dusty floor with a push broom while Aerosmith plays from an old tape player—another forgotten possession—I take a break and head inside to grab a Heineken, only I’m stopped by a familiar voice on the way inside.

  “Ford,” the man says. I turn to face him. “Thought that was you.”

  Superintendent Abbott walks toward me, though he’s nearly unrecognizable in khaki shorts and a golf polo.

  “Victor,” I say, extending my hand. “Not used to seeing you out of your three-piece suit.”

  This man put me through five rounds of interviews for this position, grilling me with impossible questions and hiding his shock when he realized it was going to take more than that to rattle me.

  “So you’re the new neighbor,” he says, staring at my house, his hands on his hips. “The Smiths were good people. Really going to miss them. They don’t make neighbors like that anymore.” He pauses, his smile fading. “So, you getting all settled in?”

  I nod, neglecting to tell him I haven’t even been here a full twenty-four hours yet. “I am. Taking it one day at a time.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear, Ford.” He pats me on the back. “We’ll have to have you over for dinner one of these nights. My wife, Tabitha, makes a mean duck a l’orange. And I’m sure my daughter would love to meet you. She’s going to be a senior this year at Rosefield. So is my niece. She’s staying with us while she finishes her senior year.”

  “Of course. I’d love to meet your family sometime,” I lie.

  Shoot me now.

  “Anyway, I know the board’s really excited to have you. Your interviews really blew us away, and that recommendation from U.S. Education Secretary Carl Broadbent really sealed the deal.”

  Carl is an old family friend who’s never worked a day in his life with me, but he offered. And I couldn’t say no to that.

  “I won’t keep you any longer,” he says. “Looks like you’re busy here.” Abbott checks his phone. “Meeting the guys at the club for a round. You golf much, Ford?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You should join us next time.”

  “Yeah, why not?” I smile, like I’m excited about playing golf with Victor Abbott and his cronies, but like my father always said, if you want to win at life, you have to play the game.

  Victor gives a little wave before climbing into the driver’s side of his Infiniti and backing out of the driveway. Glancing toward his backyard, I spot an iron fence surrounding an in-ground pool.

  A girl with blonde hair piled on top of her head and oversized sunglasses sits in one of the lounge chairs, paging through a thick book. Must be his daughter or his niece, both of which are seniors at Rosefield, so I don’t give her a second look.

  Maybe she’s pretty. And maybe I haven’t been laid in longer than I’d like to admit. But so much as thinking about messing around with a student is a line I refuse to cross. I don’t even entertain those types of fantasies in my “alone time.”

  Far too many careers have been ruined all because a teacher or person of authority couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

  But that’s not me.

  I have complete control.

  Heading inside, I grab a beer from the fridge and take a seat at the kitchen table to cool off for a bit. Grabbing my phone, I pull up the Karma app, which promptly reminds me that I haven’t spoken to Absinthe in almost twelve hours and that it will give me two karma points if I send her a message right now.

  Kerouac: I never asked why your name is Absinthe.

  Absinthe is online …

  Absinthe: Good morning to you too.

  Kerouac: You were waiting for my message, weren’t you?

  Absinthe: It’s called a push notification. I was alerted the second you sent me that.

  Kerouac: Most girls would play hard to get. They’d make me wait several hours or maybe even several days before responding.

  Absinthe: No point in playing hard to get when you have no intentions of getting me.

  Kerouac: Fair point.

  Absinthe: My eyes are green. Like the color of absinthe liquor. And I’ve been told that I have addictive qualities.

  Kerouac: Addictive qualities?

  Absinthe: One taste and men get hooked.

  Kerouac: How many men have you been with, Absinthe?

  Absinthe: Enough.

  Kerouac: A number, please.

  Absinthe: A handful. You?

  Kerouac: More than a handful.

  Absinthe: So basically, what you’re saying is … you’re experienced.

  Kerouac: You could infer that, yes.

  Absinthe: Some people get turned off by that. It’s the opposite for me. A man with experience is a good thing.

  Kerouac: How old were you when you lost your virginity?

  Absinthe: Does it matter?

  Kerouac: Fine. I’ll go first. I was fifteen. She was the sixteen-year-old girl next door.

  Absinthe: Who seduced whom?

  Kerouac: She seduced me. And she had big tits. I couldn’t have said no if I wanted to.

  Absinthe: Weak.

  Kerouac: Your turn, Absinthe. Tell me about your first time.

  Absinthe has signed off.

  Chapter 5

  Halston

  I’m not sure what I expected from a restaurant called Big Boulders, where the woman on the sign is standing in front of two giant rocks that, I guess, are supposed to represent her breasts? But after filling out a dozen job applications over the past week, this is the only place that called me back.

  “How many in your party?” The hostess, wearing a low-cut top that barely covers her nipples and leaves her belly exposed, gives me a dazzling smile.

  “I’m here to see Todd Chadwick,” I say. “I have an interview.”

  “Oh, yes, right this way.” She leads me to a back room before knocking on a door with a “manager” plaque taped to the outside. It smells like fried food and spilled drinks in here, and all of the girls are dressed in such a way that invites blatant ogling from
the male patrons. “Todd, your one o’clock is here.”

  The door flings open a second later, and a generic-looking white guy stands before me. Before he extends his hand, his eyes drag the length of me, lingering on my breasts, and then he invites me in, telling me to take a seat on a blue chair with a questionable white stain on the fabric.

  “So you’re … Halston,” he says, grabbing my application from a stack on his desk. “What kind of name is Halston? If you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I guess my parents named me after a perfume,” I say, monotone and repeating the answer I give everyone else who’s ever asked me the same stupid question. Supposedly it was the perfume my mother was wearing the night she met my father, when they were a couple of innocent high school kids with their whole lives ahead of them. But I don’t share that story. It romanticizes them, and they’re selfish assholes. “Anyway, your ad said you offered on-the-job training. Is that right?”

  He nods, his hand partially covering his mouth as he rests his elbow on his desk. Todd can’t keep his eyes off my breasts for more than a few seconds, and I’m just now realizing his shirt says, “Get Your Rocks Off at Big Boulders!”

  “Do you understand what kind of restaurant this is?” he asks.

  I nod. “Yeah. Like Knockers.”

  “We’re better than Knockers.” His voice rises. Must be a hot button topic for Todd. “Anyway, we’re classier. Our women don’t look like ex-strippers and our food is all hand-made, nothing frozen.”

  Because I’m sure that’s what’s bringing their customers here night after night.

  “You’d be a server,” he says. “But we have a strict dress code. We provide the uniforms. I’m sure you saw some of the girls. Just think of it as a bikini. It’s no different. In fact, it hides a little more than a bikini would.”

  Way to justify it, Todd.

  “If there’s any doubt in your mind, any part of you that thinks you’d be uncomfortable in this kind of setting, I want you to get up right now and walk out of my office,” he says.

  “I can handle this,” I assure him. “They can look, but they can’t touch, right?”

  His eyes widen. “Absolutely. If anyone so much as puts their hands on you, you let me or one of the guys at the bar know. They’ll be shown the door immediately. We do not tolerate that.”