my day off work

tamara is the queen of hollywood. or one of them. yesterday, at noon, naked in her hot tub, we drank chardonnay and stared up at the stony grey sky. rain? we hoped so. tamara had soaked some funny-smelling purple salts at the bottom of the steaming water which she claimed would penetrate and repair every inch of skin tissue. even the puckered ring of your asshole. tamara knows all about assholes. her job: at-home wax jobs; she also bleaches assholes.

i met tamara two weeks ago when she walked into the shop to pick up a portrait. we have little in common, but we like to spend time the same way: sitting very close, for long amounts of time, talking and not talking. tamara and i have also bonded over the recent revelation that for us all relationships, no mater how casual, are intense. except this one. we hope.

we polished off the wine then slipped into terrycloth robes and walked inside. i laid down on her bed, pulled out my little bag. i’ll call the cab tamara said. hold off. we split a spliff sprinkled with hash. she blew smoke rings, her fat lips slicked with spit. we dressed...sparsely. the cab arrived. drizzle smeared the windshield. we walked up to mitch’s front porch hair wet, eyes threaded red. come in said mitch, opening the door wide. his body, compact and corded, crushed against us in a tight hug. mitch is beautiful in a way that makes my stomach seize up yet he’s so blissed out on pot and kundalini, he acts as if he possessed no physical body at all. when he kissed tamara’s hand what's up, she blushed. he didn’t notice, or pretended not to care.

the first time i met mitch, i assumed his tasteful, two bedroom bungalo belonged to his parents. i remember he put his hand on my shoulder and huffed why are YOU so dressed up? tamara rolled her eyes she’s always dressed like that. my slinky black shift. his standard attire was no shirt and tight, cut-off khaki shorts. i understood his comment had nothing to do with fashion and avoided all further questions. if he had a job, he never mentioned it. most important: whenever we call, he says yes.

we rolled a blunt on his back porch then smoked it huddled beneath a fuschia pashmina scarf. tamara and i laid down on the wooden planks, holding hands, just laying there. in the kitchen, mitch blended several different grasses in his little red machine, strained the mixture, then served it in chilled shot glasses. i drank mine with a cough while tamara held her nose with real flare. mitch scoffed health won’t kill you. when the sun started to set, tamara and mitch rolled out their yoga mats and moved through a series of poses...for two fucking hours. in the backyard, sprawled on a pool float, i read grace hartigan’s journals by candlelight, letting the mosquitoes go hog wild on my legs.

later, we piled into mitch’s car and drove to a house party in the hills where i ate a massive bowl of stew with carrots, potatoes, celery and some indistinguishable meat, much to mitch’s visible disgust. but i was so hungry! in a hash-haze, i danced with an ad exec for an hour and a half. outside, on the patio, we discussed paul ryan’s physique. he told people magazine that he does INSANITY i said. really? i do that, he beamed, leaning in to light my second cig. later, mitch mocked this exchange, in the car, speeding towards a bar in westwood. INSANITY is so american, he lamented. its main selling point is physical torture and punishment. tamara scratched her knee and spit her gum out the window. its so LA to feel political about fitness, i said, slurring a little, which made everyone laugh.

sitting at a circular booth at the far end of the bar, m and t downed whiskey while i sipped water out of a fat red straw. my stomach churned. booked it to the bathroom. a long, long line. waited five minutes then no more: grabbed the trashcan, squatted, and puked up the stew, poking my head up periodically to apologize to those in line. its not the booze i whispered. i ate some bad soup. i vomited and vomited. once inside the stall, i washed my mouth, face, and neck. someone pounded on the door anyone in there? we’ve had a complaint that someone is sick. open up. i applied a fresh layer of lipstick and mascara then cracked the door huh? he repeated his spiel. that was the girl before me i said, flipping my hair. she has long black bangs and she was wearing a black shirt with black boots. (the description, of course, fit me and several other girls in the bar.) the man escorted me into the hallway. i pointed to where my friends sat. do you see her? he asked., i only saw the top of her head, bent over a can. he smiled then walked off. i returned to the table. where were you? we thought you died. i said long line.

back at tamara's house, i struggled to sleep.  no traffic, light pollution. i got up, turned on the desk lamp, and opened the window to let the night in.