“Fancy,” I said, sipping a Tom Collins. I watched her as she watched herself in the mirror.
I pointed to the three wine bottles that held three white candles.
“That. That’s fancy.”
She looked into her eyes searching deep through her pupils, looking to find what was inside. I chomped a piece of ice, and laid back on her bed, waiting for nothing to happen. She swayed side to side, and I could hear the swish of her skirt.
“Hey, what do you think about this?”
I lifted my head; she was holding two pairs of shoes, juxtaposing one color to another.
“Well, I think they both look fine.”
“I can’t trust you on anything.”
“Don’t say sorry, you say that to much.”
“Well, I am though.”
“You’re a mess.”
I knew I was and she didn’t have to say it and if I had more pride I would have left. I felt water collect on the outside of my glass. I thought eventually if I stayed quite for long enough she might feel sorry.
Dismissing my silent pleas, she swayed to the kitchen and swished back with a bottle of something yellow.
“Let’s take a shot.”
The taste of tequila sizzled down my throat.
“The red ones,” I said.
“What?” She replied.
Sometimes I don’t know. She looks at me with disregard. I’m just there, another thing in the room, a nightstand or a candle.
“The red shoes fancy me.”