There’s a bunch of us in this bedroom, and I’m sitting next to him, being playful, but also almost stultifyingly high on cocaine. You know – I’ve hit that point in tequila and cocaine where I can feel my skin vibrating, teetering back and forth on top of my organs, while the crescendo of the social interactions eddying around the room threatens to sweep me into the undertow of my own malicious thoughts. Ugh. It’s okay. I’m holding it together. I have little to say at this point, unclenching my jaw only momentarily to dole out small dollops of approval and puns. There are so many people in this room, but I want to be next to him, so I am.
But she wants to be next to him, too, and I can tell this as she bounces on the edge of the bed. She’s at a sunnier place in her cocaine high than I am, which is fine, and she’s begging for attention. I know this. It’s not too subtle, as I can see her trying her best to dethrone me from right next to him. I get it. I understand. But I’m feeling selfish, and while normally I wouldn’t care to add another set of genitalia into the impending sexual mix of this late night drug fest (and soon to be orgy), instead I look at him. If he wants her to join, he will welcome her in. That is not my job. And it is not my job to push her away, and it is not my job to invite her in. This isn’t my party. It’s his. So he calls the shots.
He does not invite her over. He does not gesture to her lovingly or ask me to move over to make room for her among us. Instead, we sit there and watch her as she tries to light up the room. As she tries to say winning things. As she tries to be funny, but we’re not laughing. We’re both checked out on drugs and watching the world pass by, and she is a part of it. I think she can tell that we’re not charmed by her behavior, and she escalates from charismatic to caustic because of it. She’s becoming loud. Like a wounded, insecure animal, she is trying new tactics for getting male attention. And it is bizarre.
She is becoming shrill, and I can tell he doesn’t like it.
“Tell her to shut up,” he whispers in my ear.
“Aw, I can’t do that. I’m not mean,” I whisper back.
“Yo, ho, shut up!” he says instead. I sit there and laugh. She looks at him, alarmed. Offended. Finally having received the attention she so desperately desired. She moves to the other side of the room, being salty and spouting off just a little bit. We turn away, back to the other conversations at hand. But she is fuming at the other end of the room, feeling jilted when I see the knife in her hand. And I can hear her grumbling. She is upset, and within moments she slinks back to the bed, the knife gently in a hand by her side. She’s saying something defensive while everyone else in this scene of individual self absorption fails to notice the knife in her hand. My knife. As she’s hoovering me and him, me between him and her, and I wonder what will happen next.
It doesn’t take long before she puts it down, and I’m sitting there, stunned. I don’t say a thing as she retreats to the corner of the room yet again, knifeless now, but with the mark on the beast on her head in my mind. The mark of the beast wasn’t there before, but now it is, as I sit there, still cozied up to him. The party carries on. I wait for people to leave. The conversation ebbs and flows casually through cocaine highs and lows as the night ensues.
Eventually people leave, and she’s the last one to go. He’s asleep in my bed now, and I see everyone off. She wanted to stay with the two of us, but she’s gone now. She hasn’t been invited to stay through the upcoming scenes of sex and further indulgence, which is a relief in some way. Despite her best efforts, she has lost fair and square, but I’m hoping that she’s not a sore loser because things are not looking up with her in the picture anymore.