Page 5 of Puppy Love

I’m not going to lie. I expected more… emotion. More crying, some reminiscing, maybe. “Remember when”s and “I’ll miss you”s. I mean, Mallory is quite literally a theatre kid, now all grown up. She lives for drama and angst. She loves to make things harder than they need to be. But I guess this particular drama has been a long time coming.

I figured the bar would be closing by the time we left, after all the empty glasses and smudged mascara.

But I might actually have time to stick around now, listen to some karaoke. Maybe play the divorce card and get a couple drinks. It’s been a year, sure, and though I’m completely ready for it to be over, I haven’t actually moved on.

By moved on, I mean had sex.

Not because I haven’t wanted to. It’s just, when you spend your entire adulthood with the same person, you forget how to have a one-night stand. But tonight, I’m ready. I even wore my nicest pair of black lacy underwear which are currently climbing into my ass. It feels weird to be waiting for this to be over so I can get laid, but to be fair, it’s been a long time.

I tilt my head back, letting the rest of my drink slide down my throat, before I take the pen and sign my name on the second black line. The signature doesn’t look half as nice as hers.

“Is that it then?” Mallory asks, tightening her ponytail.

I nod. “I guess so.”

She unscrews the lid of her insulated tumbler and pours her leftover glass of wine inside before putting the lid back on.

“I’ll drop these off at the courthouse in the morning,” she says, scooping the large stack of papers into her arms. “I’ll see you around, Violet.”

And just as she had sauntered into the bar, Mallory saunters out of it.

“Ten o’clock karaoke begins in two minutes!” a woman calls through the speakers. “Sign-ups are almost full!”

I look down resentfully at the margarita Mallory bought for me, even though it’s a completely innocent bystander. Drinking it will mean absolutely nothing, especially now that she’s gone, but for some reason, it will feel like she’s won. Won at what? I have no fucking clue. But I am not drinking this damn margarita.

I pick it up, the thick glass cold between my fingers. But as I lift it off the wooden table, I see something small and cylindrical. Light pink and expensive.

It’s Mallory’s lip gloss. Her favorite lip gloss, actually. She doesn’t go anywhere without it.

Cursed margarita in one hand, Mallory’s forty-dollar tube of lip gloss in the other, I shuffle to the door, hoping to catch her attention before she pulls away. The wooden door is thick and heavy, and it takes a hefty shove to push it open.

“Mallory, wait I—”

But just as I step outside, I bump into something with just enough force to send the tube of lip gloss, and some of the margarita, flying. The lip gloss bounces off the concrete once, then barrels toward the storm drain. The margarita, however, just barely tips over the edge of the glass, splashing onto the front of a beautiful emerald green dress.

“Shit!” I take a step back and, just then, watch Mallory’s car speed off into the distance. My eyes slowly focus on the woman in front of me. “I’m really sorry I—”

“Wasn’t paying attention?” the woman asks, her eyebrows furrowed as she wipes the slush off the front of her dress. “Was running outside of a bar with a full-to-the-brim margarita in your hands?”

I smile sheepishly, scratching the side of my neck.

“Yup! That’s the one. I’m really sorry,” I say again. The woman’s expression doesn’t shift. In fact, I think there might just be the beginnings of a frown tugging on the corners of her mouth. Fuck. “I can uh—” I stumble over my words, trying to find a way to diffuse the situation. I hold out the cold cup still in my hands. “Do you want it?”

I could be imagining it, but I think the ghost of a smile flickers across her face.

“You mean the drink you just spilled all over me?” she asks, her eyebrow arched in a dissatisfied manner. “No thanks.”

“Right,” I say through a half-laugh half-please-god-help-me-wince. I clear my throat. “Well, what if I buy you a new one? Unspilled guarantee?”

Honestly, I was really hoping to be the one getting a free drink tonight. But I will do just about anything to get this woman to stop looking at me like I’ve just completely ruined her night. I hold my breath, waiting for her to answer. She sighs.

“Alright,” she says. “One drink.”

As the woman orders her Vodka Cranberry (a boring choice if you ask me), I begin to notice all of the things I hadn’t had time to notice when she had been frowning at me. The slope of her nose, the rosy tint to her cheeks. A small black mascara smudge just below her eye. The frizzy blonde waves down the back of her slightly-stained sleeveless dress. But the stain isn’t from the margarita. It’s dry, a small dark splotch embedded permanently into the fabric. And her shoes.

How am I just now noticing her shoes? Fuzzy, hammerhead sharks wrap around her feet in a comical contrast to the elegance of her outfit. In the short moment of panic about what an absolute mess I had made, I hadn’t considered that maybe this woman was already a bit of a mess all on her own.

“Is there a reason you’re staring at me, or should I be worried you’re having a stroke?” The woman quirks an eyebrow, leaning against the bar. She redirects her gaze to the bartender.

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