The One
a short story
by
Rosalyn Wraight
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© Copyright 2012 Rosalyn Wraight
a Don’t Waste Daylight publication
Smashwords Edition
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The One
Any STDs I need 2 know about?
Mortified, Polly McDowell snapped her cellphone shut before anyone could see the text message she had just received. She glanced in all directions. To the left stood a vacant stool. To the right, an overly perfumed woman absentmindedly gazed into the mirror behind a hundred liquor bottles. A woman at the end of the bar stared at her peculiarly, but she couldn’t have seen, and neither could the woman next to her, facing the opposite direction. But, the bartender hovered. She could have seen. She probably had seen. She probably had tried to see.
Polly grabbed her beer, took it from half-full to empty in a matter of seconds, and requested, “Can I get another, please?”
After narrowing her eyes at her for a long moment, the bartender replied, “Sure thing, Polly,” and snatched the glass.
Leaning to her left, she opened her phone and quickly texted: No! Just tell me where u r! She shoved the phone into her jean jacket and then withdrew a ten-dollar bill from her pants pocket. When the bartender placed a fresh one in front of her, she slapped down the bill and implored, “Will you watch my stuff, Angela? I need to use the bathroom.”
“Sure thing, Polly,” she repeated, this time with more suspicion in her tone.
She rose and aimed for the bathroom. The bang she made when she barreled through the door severely contradicted the word “Ladies” barely an inch from her face.
With a fusty odor greeting her, she entered the dark bathroom. Wildly, she flailed her arms to get the motion-detector light to acknowledge her presence. It didn’t. In all the years she had patronized Ops, it never had. She wondered if she were somehow invisible.
Giving up on the prospect of light, she untucked her T-shirt, and her hand desperately snaked inside, giving a relieving tug to the lacy maroon bra that dug into her torso like a bear trap. It’d be off soon enough, she figured. At least it would be if her cellphone cooperated—and the tease at the other end.
With another graceless bang, she entered the first stall, unzipped, and then abruptly stopped just when her pants hit mid-thigh. She felt horribly uneasy, and that seemed odd to her, even under the circumstances. After taking a deep breath, she sat and completed the much-needed task.
Just as she reached for the toilet paper, she heard the bathroom door open. Two seconds later, the light came on, apparently for someone without invisibility issues. Two more seconds helped her realize there were multiple invaders.
“Come here,” one of the voices said, and it was followed by kissing sounds, an incidental kick of the metal trashcan, and laughter. The spontaneous whirring of a hand dryer made Polly surmise that a back was against the wall.
“Let me in there,” she heard right before the jingling of a belt buckle. Her mind frantically pitched between willfully believing she was invisible and letting her presence be known before anyone ended up mortified.
“Not here. How about your place?”
“It’s being painted,” came the reply, but this time the voice rang with familiarity. “Here is good. Now is even better. I already locked the door.”
Shay? Reflexively, her feet went up, and she carefully propped them against the door. She tilted a fretful ear as she chewed her fingernail. A few more manipulative words, and she knew for certain. Shay! Dammit! Shay!
Shay was a florist in a disgustingly metaphorical way: a serial deflowerer, plucking here, plucking there, and then slithering home to the one she swore she loved with all her heart. Polly had been ‘the one’ for two and a half years. It took her that long to figure out all the plucking that was going on, and when she did, she felt plucked, her heart in pieces, strewn about like rose petals by a flower girl moments before a grand jilting.
Her mind bolted to a place she did not like. Was this what Shay did when she cheated on her? Was this where she did it, a bar bathroom, a whirring hand dryer setting the mood? And did that mean there was another ‘the one’ at home obliviously readying for the inevitable? Was this just how she was in relationships, or was this how she ended them?
She knew Peg wouldn’t end it with her that way. No, she’d hold her head high, tell her it wasn’t enough anymore, and leave. It’d be dignified, but the end result would be the same. Wouldn’t it? Leaving. Being left. Did it matter which? Did it matter how? If it wasn’t going to last, did it even matter with whom?
Things had a knack for going wrong—despite a thousand promises to the contrary. Peg and she had vowed to do it differently, to defy all the stereotypes, statistics, jokes, and clichés that foretold their unavoidable doom. They’d never stray. They’d stay close. They’d make the urge to merge a permanent condition. They’d keep the passion alive, both in and out of the sheets. They’d trust. They’d build a fulfilling life together. Promises. Promises. And more promises. It wasn’t until the relationship released its first death rattle, two years later, that they even knew something was wrong.
And so, they resorted to cheating. Thursday was cheat night. This was Thursday. That had never been a bad thing—until now, legs pushed against a bathroom stall, listening to the workings of a master cheat: the florist.
She plastered her hands over her ears, wishing she could hum to completely drown out the seduction a thin door away. And then, her mind dared to whisper: Your relationship with Peg will die, too, just like it did with the florist, just like it did with Shay. You’re destined to be alone, Polly McDowell, utterly alone. How many times must we prove this?
But she wanted this! She wanted Peg! And this was vastly different than it was with the dumb-plucker of a florist. Wasn’t it? She found it hard to feel confident enough to answer while reclining on a toilet seat, legs jutting out, pants below her knees.
As quietly as she could, she brought her feet to the floor and inched to a standing position. With the same amount of stealth, she turned around to pitch the toilet paper, and then she raised her pants, buttoning them but foregoing the zipper with its giveaway sound.
Okay, now what?
Clear her throat? Flush? Or just barge on out? If she didn’t look in their direction, maybe Shay wouldn’t know it was her. Or, did she want her to know? Caught red-handed, but three years too late?
In an instant, the decision was no longer hers.
Her cellphone blared and vibrated, triggering a chorus of swear words on the other side of the stall door. Her hand dove into her pocket to seize the thing. Frantic to squelch it, she fumbled, bobbled, and—
Plop.
Her phone sunk to the bottom of the toilet bowl like a torpedoed ship.
Dammit!
Not even screen-side up.
Dammit!
She panicked. Did cellphones drown immediately? Was death instantaneous, or could she grab it before the yellowish liquid seeped inside to extinguish her connection with the tease on the other end? All she needed was a glimpse—a quick, quick glimpse of the text to tell the cat where the mouse was hiding. Or was she the mouse and not the cat? Did it matter, drown rat?
Dammit!
Choices flooded her mind. She could borrow a phone. She could ask Angela to let her use the bar phone. She could go home and call. But, any of those would end the cat and mouse game.
And what if this was what would save them? What if this torrid affair was exactly what would save them? Betraying their complacent selves, spicing it up, breathing life back into a dying relationship, urging the urge to merge. What if the text message from Peg was what would save them? What if?
She raised her sleeve.
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About the Author
Rosalyn Wraight is the author of the Detective Laura McCallister lesbian mystery series: Woman Justice, Secrets and Sins, Corpse Call, and The Watson Evidence.
She is also the author of the ongoing Lesbian Adventure Club series. Thus far, the series consists of thirteen titles: Scavengers, Ledge Walkers, Savages, Loose Sleuths, Sisters, Leakers Ignited, Scraps, L-Word C-word, Spiders, Likely Suspects, Stalemates, Laura’s League, and Sutures. A backstory prequel, The Queen of Terrified & The Newly Brave Landowner, is also available.
On the Web
Author Blog: LesbianWriter.com
Author Bookstore: LesbianAdventureClub.com