Page 9 of Mine

“You don’t owe Valerie anything anymore. Doing this isn’t going to bring Chloe back?—”

“Say another word—another fucking word—and you will swallow this pistol. Do you understand me?”

Cillian shakes his head and shoves out of the car. “Crystal clear, boss.”

Five

Sabine

Birthdays are the official worst day of the year. There, I said it.

Okay, fine. Maybe it’s an unfair declaration. I imagine for most people, birthdays are celebratory. Happy. A time to reflect on years past and proclaim all those dreams and goals for the next twelve months.

For me, however, it’s a yearly reminder of the vacancy that is my life. That it doesn’t matter that I am a year older. I am still a hermit with no friends, no partner, no dog or cat—not even a plant.

It’s a reminder that I’m still paying rent for an apartment the size of a shoebox, that I haven’t upgraded my car in a decade, and that I still consider a bag of potato chips and a glass of wine a well-rounded dinner. That it is yet another year where no one—not a single person—will send me a Happy Birthday text, card, or gift.

It’s all becoming a bit embarrassing and very Emily Dickinson.

So, when I wake, dreading the number on the calendar, I decide this birthday—this year—will be different. I will make an effort. I will try to look on the bright side of things. I will learn how to sit in solitude and thrive in it. (Also, I’m joining a Pilates class to help with those pesky fifteen pounds I need to lose).

With this renewed outlook, after breakfast, I walk my optimistic little self to the Forum Shops at Caesars and buy a skintight, cherry-red, off-the-shoulder cocktail dress. With it, I purchase a pair of diamond-studded Louboutins—as if the dress isn’t gaudy enough. Then I treat myself to lunch and mimosas where I officially max out a credit card.

Delightfully buzzed, I make one final stop at my favorite sex-toy shop, Titty Titty Bang Bang. I have no shame in admitting that I have taken to electronics to satisfy my personal needs. Honestly, there’s something very freeing about it. I don’t have to suffer through bad dates or worry about sexually transmitted diseases.

The owner, Stormy (naturally), informed me just last week of a major milestone in my VIP membership. I have officially purchased every product in the store.

But that’s not true. I haven’t tried the growing selection of creature cocks that are displayed next to the Fantasy Erotica bookshelf. I draw the line at monster peen. A woman must have standards, after all.

After that, I wander back to my teeny apartment that overlooks the Vegas strip and take a three-hour nap, clutching my new dress like a life raft.

Evening comes swift and disorienting.

Sipping a fresh mimosa (this one peach), I spend an hour on my hair, treating, washing, drying, gooping, and then straightening until the black strands look like a curtain of silk down my back. I go for sexy and subtle with my makeup, like my mother taught me.

God rest her soul.

It’s now nine in the evening, and as the mirrored elevator carries me down to the lobby, I study my reflection.

Despite the shopping spree, the champagne, and the overindulgent primping, I find myself slipping back into a somber state of mind. That damn discontent that comes with feeling that I’m not where I’m supposed to be in my life.

That somewhere in this crazy world, there is so much more for me.

Whatever. I shake it off. I just need another drink.

Six

Sabine

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to a crowd of drunken bachelorettes. Tiny plastic penises are everywhere. In their hair, around their necks, in their drinks.

A cloud of Victoria’s Secret body spray crop-dusts the car as I sidestep two women comparing matching tattoos they’d just gotten. Both are laughing so hard that one drools, missing my new Louboutins by an inch.

I catch a glimpse of the new ink. On the blonde’s forearm is an image of a salt shaker, and on her friend’s, a pepper shaker. One reads: Shoop Shoop A-Doobie. The other: Like Scoobie Doobie.

I grin, then feel a pang of envy. (Of the friendship—not the tattoos, to be clear).

Gripping the small (fake) Chanel purse I have draped over my shoulder, I make my way through the crowd, ignoring the catcalls and whistles but secretly loving them. The dress just paid for itself.

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