Protocol By Andrea Marcusa

You roll over in bed and see peroxide blond stiff hair, wrinkles, and jowls. This woman you met in a bar, the kind of bar you never frequent, especially alone, across town, with dead animal heads hanging on walls and guys with beefy hands that could break a glass with one squeeze. The kind of bar you, a smallish vegan guy with a white-collar job performing financial analysis (your first since college) and a cat for a roommate probably shouldn’t frequent. But you thought you’d up your excitement factor, since the last three girls who dropped you called you “too nice.” You drove your mother’s cast-off Prius to the Fox & Goat Lounge and parked beside the pickups, Harleys. After this, things get blurry. There was a beautiful blond in a short skirt and black fedora. You remember her breasts and her gravelly voice. Violet. Her hand on your ass. You don’t remember how many drinks you had. You’d started with beers, then six shots of Tequila appeared, and you took one. Then more shots, no idea how many, until the blond said, “Hey, let’s get out of here,” and she pushed her hand into your pocket. You don’t remember driving home.

Now it's almost noon and this Violet’s beside you. To extract her from your apartment you suggest breakfast at a diner. That’s as far as you get with your plan to ghost her. You glance outside and see your car. Where’s hers? You’re not sure of the protocol. Drive her home? You are not used to these kinds of logistics. If you are with someone, you go to her place. But last night was different. You laughed and talked and were sure Violet was your soulmate. You think you even told her this.

Sitting on your bed this morning, she lights a cigarette. There’re several crumpled condoms on the bedside table. You have never been with a woman who smoked. She flicks an ash onto one of the condoms. You glance at your cat, Tiny, who gives you and Violet the stink eye. You think of Aunt Jean who died of lung cancer. Violet looks as old as Aunt Jean. Sure, her body’s in shape, but her lines and extra skin reminds you of your mother’s friend Kay.

You get up to find a saucer for Violet’s cigarette and try to remember last nights’ conversation. Violet works at a salon. All you recall is loud country music, sawdust kicked up while everyone danced, talking nonstop about you don’t know what, and the way each time Violet’s blouse flopped open you wanted to fuck her.

At a faraway diner, you pick to avoid running into someone you know, Violet orders fried eggs runny, bacon, black coffee and pancakes. You have a tofu scramble and sip tea. The waitress eyes the two of you and you shrink down into your seat. She digs into her food, chatters about the salon. You wonder if your mother has been to her salon. Or your mother’s friends.

This morning you are especially grateful to have your father’s last name. Your mother switched hers back after the divorce. Violet drops her heavy cowboy boot onto your thigh. The heel feels like a sharp stone. She smiles at you in a way that feels like she has plans for you. This makes the tofu stick in your throat. You must drop her somewhere. Tell her you have work. Act cool. Violet smiles again and this time there is a piece of yellow yoke on her front tooth. You can’t take your eyes off it. She looks at you the same way your mother does when she wants you to do something you don’t want to do like clean the gutters. That’s when you think of your dad. The way your mom looked at him mornings right before he left. You swore you’d never hurt anyone like your dad hurt your mom. You still barely speak to him. You are different -- sensitive, principled.

Last night floods back. How Violet grabbed your dick and devoured it. And you feel your body sigh. But across from you are jowls, wrinkled decolletage. And this older woman makes you feel squirmy. Like it’s not you. Despite how good your dick felt.

You have got to get out of this restaurant. You don’t want anyone to see you with her. You’ll tell her there’s a big presentation on Monday. The whole office is going into work today. You’ll drop her off on your way. You’ll be nice. Polite. Caring. The way you are. Thank her with a friendly peck. You sip your tea and steel yourself before dumping her and ruining her Saturday.

Violet looks up from her phone and taps your hand. “Listen kid, Uber’s here. Got to go babyface. Pay the check, will you?”

Then she’s gone except for an empty plate with a corner of toast, smears of yellow yoke and a pool of syrup.

Andrea Marcusa's writings have appeared in Gettysburg Review, Cutbank, River Styx, River Teeth, Citron Review, and others. She’s received recognition in a range of competitions, including Glimmer Train, Raleigh Review, New Letters and Southampton Review. 

For more information, visit: andreamarcusa.com or see her on Twitter @d_marcusa