Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Who's That Girl...

Her name might be Georgia. Maybe even Frankie. She was named for her father, the scoundrel who ran out on them when she and her sisters were still young enough to miss him. Now, she only misses his Manicotti. He always doubled the Asiago and Cayenne because, in his Italian-accented words, "Good food is meant to be tasted long after it's over." Damn, but she felt the same way about life.

She had sex last night, but made sweet love this morning. She skipped breakfast without fail, and liked to do the same with unnecessary staff meetings. She played mind games with her barista, trying to confuse him with her mad concoctions and flurry of skinny and split shot and triples and wet and with legs. Someday, she'd walk in and order what she really wanted. Coffee. Black. Two sugars. But she was too young, still, for life to be that simple. She was planning on embracing the complicated for a few more years.

She carried only credit cards, cigarettes, rose-tinted lip balm, and a vintage DVF wrap dress folded into a tiny square in her huge bag. It had been a gift from her favorite companion - the one with whom she'd shared the past twelve delightful hours and past three delightful years - and she carried it despite her apathy toward "It" bags. Instead, she carried it because he was it...they were it...and she couldn't wait to fill it with everything important. Like a marriage license or tickets to Vegas or brand new credit cards with a different last name that the scoundrel's. And diapers. Someday, she would need to carry diapers.

What else can I tell you about her? She was fair and polite. She loved anyone who shared kindness. Wrote all others off in permanent marker. She'd saved her first stuffed animal and nearly every cork from every meaningful celebration. She dreamed of collecting old maps and globes, but she'd never really been anywhere besides LA; such a collection might poke fun at her instead of fulfilling her, don't you agree? She'd stick to corks until she figured out how to fly away.

She was sure of everything, and of nothing at all. She knew this, deep down. Except maybe...maybe she was sure of one thing. Maybe even two.

She would name her babies after scoundrels. That, and she'd make her love Manicotti tonight. Doubled Asiago and Cayenne.