Home > A Nightclub of Naughty VOICES, Peach > Peach (2) – by Claire King

Peach (2) – by Claire King

I don’t see him all day, he’s up in his office with the air-con cranked up, working on his papers. But then around 5.25 he starts up like a teenager – sprays on cologne, brushes his teeth, so when she gets in from Kroger he’ll be fresh for all the PDAs. He brushes his teeth with hot water; I’ve seen him. What is that?

Ugh, whatever. She’s, like, eight years older than me, and he’s getting ready to retire. It’s disgusting. Way to go, Dad, Mom would be so proud of you.

They love it when I ‘stay over at my girlfriends’. Petting in privacy in the den, eating take-out, watching her belly grow round. He bought me the car when they found out she was knocked up. My consolation prize.

Today it’s the gas station guy.  He was a way down the list but he’s easy-pickings. I’m early parking up, so I get a soda and stand out front looking like some kind of hooker. But the night’s warm and there’s a stand of gardenia right by me. Smells like heaven.

He’s here at last and playing Springsteen. His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas day when I slide in beside him. He’s pleased to see me, all right. Damn it, though, he’s taking me to Joe’s bar on Lafayette and Tenth. Shit, Joe’s seen me here before with the biology teacher that gave me herpes. Nice twist on sex education, you asshole. But Joe’s OK. He looks at me funny, but then turns away, shaking his head a little, and pours the beers.

I’m a virgin, I tell Gas Station Guy. They love that shit.  He holds my hand. He has stubby, rough little fingers. Good. Then I drink my beer and shut up. Gas Station Guy can talk for both of us. I guess not many people listen to him.

Tomorrow morning I’ll tell him I’m feeling sick. Headache. He’ll give me Tylenol. I’ll tell him I don’t remember a thing. Then he’ll tell me nothing happened, that I was a little drunk, couldn’t say where I lived, passed out. The usual. I’ll thank him. Then he’ll leave for work early, tell me to make myself breakfast, close the door behind me. I won’t eat a thing in his crumby kitchen. Gross. But I’ll help myself to a little souvenir.  I’m a collector.

  1. drwasy
    June 5, 2010 at 10:17 pm

    Just read this over at fn and have been obsessing over what souvenir she took. Love this, full of female ennui and desperation. Peace…

    • claireking
      June 6, 2010 at 7:31 am

      Thank you! What do you think she would have taken?

  2. Michelle McEwen
    June 7, 2010 at 9:39 am

    I like this! A lot of things are working in this piece.

    “But the night’s warm and there’s a stand of gardenia right by me”
    “He’s here at last and playing Springsteen”
    “I won’t eat a thing in his crumby kitchen. Gross. But I’ll help myself to a little souvenir. I’m a collector.”

    Great lines!

  3. June 7, 2010 at 2:28 pm

    I’m a collector.

    that slays me, I’m bleeding. clever little write. C

  4. claireking
    June 7, 2010 at 4:28 pm

    Thanks for coming over and reading and commenting! People keep asking me what she has taken. I’ll have to check.

  5. drwasy
    June 7, 2010 at 9:58 pm

    Hmmm… a power tool of some type. Something small, and easily pocketed :^) Peace…

  6. June 8, 2010 at 12:39 am

    Peach lives!! Wonderful to hear her here! Her steady tone is disarming. Her maturity makes me shudder. The Michelle in me wants to take her home and feed her and wrap her in a warm blanket but the writer in me wants to see what or who happens next. Keep it up, girl!

  7. June 14, 2010 at 9:09 pm

    OOhh! I want to read more… Jx

  8. wbjorkman
    June 14, 2010 at 10:45 pm

    She stole his gullibility with her guile that’s for sure, but he sounds like one not inclined to get that she did.

  1. No trackbacks yet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s