I sit on the hard sponge bed and glare at the floral pattern. All of the flower designs look alike: pink petals and turquoise stems. I roll my eyes up and notice the stains on the ceiling. “Why don’t we ever meet at my apartment?” My eyes, like dice, roll to the right and land on her.
“I have no reason to go to that part of town.” She has one hand around the knob and the other holding her Coach purse. Her car keys are slipped on her thumb like a ring. “It wouldn’t be right to be seen there.”
“How is this any different, Victoria?” I look the other way. The floral pattern has discontinued and is now a cornfield.
“Nothing I care about lives on your side of town,” she says. “Tomorrow is election day. Ben really wants me to make him his favorite casserole tonight.” She removes a cigarette from her purse and puts it in her mouth. Her tongue toys with it, passes it back and forth from one side of her mouth to the other. “So, I’m going to need my fridge to be running, okay?” She chuckles. She has the worst chuckle. She purposely puts spaces between each “ha” or “he.”
I open the door for her and watch cigarette smoke rise above her head like a veil as she returns to her car: a navy blue BMW. She stands at the front of her car and finishes the cigarette. Khakis, blue car, and red hair: Victoria is her own little Miss America.