#a real blue blood. old money kinda lass. but she likes it here with us peasant folk anyway.

[catalyst-collective]

its international cat day?

Katya Drusilla is ready to be showered in gifts, affection, and treats!

[010111110]

flore

God, what a mess this night’s been. I’m out here still pacing, trying to figure out what to do. Could use a drink but I’m all out of juice, and I don’t mean the booze, although I’m all out of that too. The nearest open bottle shop’s a mile off from here, but fuck me if I’m buying that cheap goony shit off them bugs. That shit won’t fly unless I’m real proper desperate, but I might here be speaking just a bit too soon. I’ll try and relay the events to you as clear as crystal blow, but I’m warning you now – it ain’t too pretty to hear.

Right, so I’m out on the town with this French lass Flore, good mate of mine, known her about a year or so now. We met in one of me old share houses and hit it off almost right away, which is strange for me, I don’t normally hit it off with no one. Don’t speak too much English the poor girl, not that I mind of course, the less talk the better is what me mum always says. Anywhos, it’s her birthday tonight and she’s got a great fat hankering for Indian of all things, so I take her to this one pub I heard of from one of me younger cousins, don’t remember the name exact, some Mukka or bloody Dukka, but it’s got this hideously grim statue of a blue monkey-man near the door, and that’s how you can tell that it’s real class and proper.

So we go in and grab a couple of cold jugs before the main event, and everything’s going down all soft and easy and fluid-like, and I’m telling Flore bout work and my piece of shit boss who keeps calling them godawful staff meetings in between each and every meal break. Warren Blythe, the old white horse, mangy little fucker with hot mustard teeth, even thinking about him makes me blood simmer, always yabbering on about how exotic he thinks I look, exotic, yes exotic, what a cunt of a word, men must be drooling all over me wherever I go, and how is it that I haven’t got a boyfriend yet? You see, I’m the only dark girl he’s ever known, the carrot that he dangles in front of all the rest of ‘em, hell, I’d punch him in the nuts if I could pay me bills otherwise, I mean the money’s decent enough, so I suppose something’s gotta give.

Putain de merde, a right bastard, Flore agrees.

Now, this is round the time I begin to notice that Flore’s been touching me a whole lot. And I don’t mean the friendly kinda touching neither, the I-sincerely-treasure-your-companionship kind, see I wouldn’t make a fuss if that were it, no, I mean almost straight up mauling, the I-wanna-slam-you-against-the-fridge-and-cum-all-over-your-tits kind. I don’t know, it’s odd I think, that she’d pull a stunt like this after a year of us being mates and that, the beer’s getting to me head I think, and ain’t she straight anywhos, and gah it’s probably nothing. I lay off it and knock back some more till I’m all lukewarm and careless again.

Next thing I know, food’s gone before it even touches the table, practically snuffed it in one go, guess we didn’t realize how starved we really were. Flore says she wants to go dancing, and dancing now, at some place that plays that bloody reggaeton, sometimes I wonder why we’re even friends really, but fuck it, tonight’s her night and I’m not about to complain, say goodbye to the blue monkey-man, swear it winked at us when we left. We follow the thumps of second-rate music into a club not too far off, the glitziest of city shindigs, take a good look round the joint, everybody’s a lot better dressed than we are, or at least better than I am, Flore’s got on a nice whitish dress, the kind that swoops down like a bird and drags dirt across the linoleum.

By the bar, Flore’s going on about her mum who’s getting divorced, or separated, whatever the term is these days. Consciously uncoupled perhaps, as Paltrow likes to put it. Now she’s off traveling the world, trekking the mountains in Tibet, or was it China I dunno, might very well have been, but she’s living her young adult dreams in her early 50s, what gallantry, what bravoure! How come they split up in the first place I ask, an unassuming girl with unassuming questions. Well, ‘parently Flore’s dad got caught up in some dirty gambling business, lost ‘em a lot of foolish money, bet he’s lying in the gutters cursing, wishing he could take it all back and then some, ah, well, no point in wallowing in your sorries, better things to be spending your precious time on.

C’est la vie, and life fucks us all.

I decide I need another beer, can’t dance to this shit without it, get a nice pint of lager for meself, sweet pear cider for the lady. With our drinks guzzled down, we push our way through the crowd to the eye of the storm, to where the action’s going on, all sweat and glitter and the skunk of modern pretension, Flore’s busting out a jig, can’t lie to you, I’m grooving a bit meself. There’s a group of girls dancing next to us, the kind that’s got on too much makeup and not nearly enough fabric, but one of them’s real beautiful I think, one of them catches me eye.

Little Miss Mystery, dressed in either yellow or green, it’s hard to tell with the goddamn neon lights that keep flickering on and off, but she’s got a face that’s bound to have broken some hearts, maybe even some skulls. Now I’m getting real red and she’s looking right at me, I’m thinking should I go say hello, but who the fuck says hello in the middle of the dancefloor? Before I can make up me mind, Miss Mystery’s suddenly in front of me, her lips pucker as she speaks, can barely hear her over the music.

Are you here with someone?

Bugger me, gotta act cool. I point at Flore and say we’re together, but not together together, no, of course not. Miss Mystery flashes a smile, and it all happens so bloody fast, as these things always do, hands on hips, tongues in mouths, she tastes like rum and those tiny mint lollies you get at hotel restrooms, what a strange combination I think. But it’s real hot and heavy, by now I’ve sunk too many to give a shit really. I see Flore walk away, presumably to get another drink.

Time rolls on, and most of it’s a blur, that is, until I hear some commotion at the bar. From the faint sound of it, some fucker’s getting antsy, yelling obscenities and such, I feel bad for the staff really, having to put up with so many obnoxious drunks gathered in one small venue.

Nique ta mere!

Shit, why am I hearing French? I recognize the voice and snap out of me daze, take Mystery’s hands off – shit! There she is in her swooping white dress, Flore, she’s full on arguing with the bouncer, threatening to take another swing at him with one of them empty beer jugs, I go try and calm her down, but she can hardly keep up standing. Things escalate from there, dunno how we end up at the gas station, but we’re there somehow, and Flore’s puking her guts out by the pavement.

Why would you kiss her?

You were supposed to kiss me!

Salope!

You slut!

Can’t you see that I’m in love…

I ended up paying for her taxi home, though she din’ even look at me as she got in. Don’t know too much of what went on with Miss Mystery after the whole fiasco either, she must’ve left with her mates at one point, didn’t even get her name, let alone her number. God, it sickens me, it does. What a waste of a bloody good night. Wonder if Flore’ll call me tomorrow, telling me how awful sorry she is, or maybe she’ll leave me hanging dry with no explanation, who knows, and who gives a fuck? Either way, I’m still in need of a drink, I appreciate you listenin’ thus far, but it’s getting on dark and I gotta hurry off to that bottle shop now.