The Blonde of the Joke

From Chapter Two

... We had emerged in the parking garage. I guess it was a part of the garage that no one knew about, because it was almost totally empty. An orange pylon in the corner was marked Q-2. I thought the sections only went up to F, but whatever.

Francie stretched her fingers to the concrete ceiling and bounced on the toes of her absurd heels. The only car in sight was a lonely white Ford Thunderbird, parked at an angle between two spaces. “That was a close one,” Francie said.

She hopped up onto the hood of the car, reached into her handbag, and pulled out two cigs. She handed one to me and lit her own with a hot-pink Bic.

“Close one?” I slid next to her on the car’s hood.

“Just kidding,” Francie said. “I never get caught. But still, it’s fun to pretend sometimes. It makes things more exciting. I love danger.”

She dragged deeply and jerked her head in the direction of my bag. “Well? Check your purse,” she said.

I tucked the still unlit Misty into my mouth and reached into the bag and groped around until I found something balled up at the bottom. I pulled it out: the Wet Seal halter dress. Red, shining, and brand-new, with the tags still dangling from a seam at the neck. A dress I hadn’t bought. I dress I had not put in my bag.

 “How . . . ?”

 Francie shrugged and flipped her ponytail, narrowed her eyes, like to say, “No big deal.” “The dress isn’t my style,” she said. “But I think it’ll look good on you. You’ve got the right look.” She leaned over, touched a hand to my hip, and lit my cigarette. “It’s all about propotions.” A lock of her hair brushed my shoulder. “Pull,” she said. She could tell I didn’t know what I was doing.

There was a spark and a flicker, and I felt a strange buzz in my chest. I didn’t cough. In fact, the smoke filling my lungs felt familiar. It felt like I had been living this way my whole life.

“Let’s go to my place,” Francie said.