Bright Lights, Big Disappointment

You are not the kind of girl who enjoys going out to a fancy restaurant on a Friday night wearing heels and a dress and lipstick. You like simplicity; picnics in the park, walks on the beach, lunches at cafés in sundresses and sandals. But tonight, your boyfriend insisted on going somewhere that he deemed fit for a date. He wasn’t like you. He liked going to extravagant, special occasion-type places, even when there was no special occasion. It was one of the many things you wished you could change about him. He calls you high-strung, tells you to relax all the time, but there’s no one wound tighter than him. Even when he’s drunk and can barely string two words together to insult you, he’s a pain in the ass.

          You glance at the clock. It’s 6:33 p.m. But you’ve been up since 4 a.m. every night ever since your insomnia has gotten bad again, so it might as well be midnight. Your boyfriend is late. Shocking, really. These days, you’d be more surprised if he was on time. He probably stopped to pour himself another drink on his way out the door. And then he had another one, and another one, and another one. You knew the drill. You could just meet him at the restaurant, but he always insisted on meeting you at your apartment and going there together. He said it made him feel like he was taking care of you. You hated that stupid rule. You were perfectly capable of getting on the subway for 15 minutes by yourself. But your boyfriend needs his ego boost, so you suck it up and let him play gentleman on date nights. It was easier that way. You were less likely to make him mad if you just did what he wanted.

It’s a quarter to 7. You spray another round of hairspray onto your curls, to make sure they don’t fall flat before your boyfriend’s sorry ass decides to show up. You wished you had straightened your hair. You had curled your hair tonight because you know that’s how he likes it best. Not like he would compliment it anyway. Your boyfriend never had time to say anything but insults anymore. You adjust your necklace, position your bracelets so the clasps are inward, and reapply a fresh coat of lipstick. You see the vodka on the counter calling your name, but you have to hold off. You knew your boyfriend would be furious if he smelled alcohol on your breath. You weren’t allowed to drink. That was his job.

Your phone rings, and it startles you. You jump up to answer it. It’s your boyfriend. You answer the phone, greeting him enthusiastically, so he’ll think you aren’t mad about him being late again. He tells you he got caught up at the office and won’t be able to go out tonight. You know he’s drunk. His words are slurred, his voice slow and heavy. You can practically smell the booze through the phone. Against your judgment, you reassure him he’s forgiven, and you tell him you love him and you’ll see him later. You wish you didn’t love him. You hope you never have to see him for the rest of your life.

          Here you are again. All dressed up and no place to go.