[right][sub]__________
 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎  
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸 
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When the flutter of eyelashes becomes the scrape of a thumb over folded bills, when the melody of laughter is quantified in dollars, when “I love you” begins to sound a lot like “can I stick it in your ass this time?” … That’s when  a woman’s idea of romance becomes as muddied as  the soles of workmen boots at the foot of a bed. That’s when a little girl bottled in a woman’s body loses grip of her dreamy white wedding. Love turns slippery as eels, slipping and sliding through their fingertips, evading the hopeful palms that beg to be met with the warm clasp of another. Instead those palms are pressed with wrinkled cash tips and their lingering, loving gaze is met with a hungered leer. The women of Soirée couldn’t possibly pinpoint exactly when their idea of love was poisoned with the stinger of working in a whore house. But you could tell it had happened. You could see it in the way the embers of their irises were snuffed out, it was palpable with every theatrical moan of pretend pleasure, it oozed from their pores every time they tried to wash it away with suds and tepid water. 

Reminded often of the Theodore-shaped scars on her heart, Pearly kept the promise to herself. The one where she swore she’d never let a John worm his way between her ribs again. But Sandy Collington wasn’t a John. He was a bartender. So it was different. Totally different, alright? He manned the bar of Soirée just a couple years before Moira Sackville bled out at her bureau desk. He’d worked behind the jump since he was knee-high. His daddy had him popping beer caps soon as he was old enough to hold a bottle opener. So he had experience. He had a silver-capped incisor and tattoos from his brief stint at sea. Sandy made a mean Manhattan. He could serve the bar 7 at a time and still keep it wiped clean and tidy. His bar-side banter with Johns was all well-placed pawns on the checkered board of manhood and his punchlines were never funnier than the drunken fool on the receiving end. He had a serpentine tongue, as silver as the cap on his tooth. Pearl fell ass over tit in love with him the moment he began an impromptu therapy session late one Tuesday night. 

[quote] “[i]Hey, Peaches-[/i]“ Sandy called out the side of his mouth, aiming a stream of bourbon at a shaker half-full of ice with a dash of agave like an archer may nock an arrow. The nickname’s origin story was foggy and formed some other drunken night. It was no longer important nor relevant. Pearly was Peaches to him. “[i]You ever thought about doin’ somethin’ else?[/i]”[/quote]

Pearl’s chin had merged with her neck as she recoiled.

[quote] “[i]Somethin’ else, huh? Like what, Sandra?[/i]” the Madam’s daughter scoffed. “[i]Like pourin’ liquor for leeches and lapdogs? Don’t think I’ve quite got the biceps for shakin’ cocktails. Much better at shakin’ ass. Better money too.[/i]”[/quote]

Sandy seemed to wince at that, his hands clamping around either half of the cocktail shaker, smacking them then lifting them over his shoulder like a bag of swag. Like a salsa dancer with a couple of castanets, he rattled the ice and the liquor back and forth, a rhythm Pearly found herself breathing in time with. The bartender’s eyes were fixed on nothing in the distance, pointedly ignoring the whore’s gaze that adamantly clawed at his cheeks. 

[quote] “[i]So you never wanted nothin’ else, no?[/i]” he asked casually, breaking the shakers back in half and prying them open just enough to let a trickle of chilled bourbon ooze into the glass waiting patiently below. “[i]Young Peaches never dreamed of nothin’ but shakin’ ass and big bills?[/i]”[/quote]

Sandy’s questions hit her like a shot of neat vodka. White hot. Like drinking down a handful of nails. They scraped away at her oesophagus, digging deep at her inner walls. She was caught in a stalemate between telling him to get the fuck off and telling him to come the fuck on. She adjusted her bare ass cheeks on the barstool, peaking out from beneath her pleated skirt, the skin peeling off the sticky leather as she shifted her weight from one side to the other. 

[quote] “[i]I dreamed of bakin’ autumn apple pies and makin’ iced tea on hot days,[/i]” the confession fell from her lips before she had a chance to amputate it. “[i]Dreamed of arrangin’ his ties all colour coded and shoe shinin’ his Italian leathers. I dreamed of knittin’ little Johnny and darling Diana matching christmas sweaters. I’d read ‘em bedtime stories each night and it wouldn’t matter if the writin’ was all small. I could still read it to ‘em even with just a nightlight. All their Christmas gifts would be wrapped perfect under the tree. A real tree, by the way. Big 6 footer with needles I’m sweepin’ up every mornin’… I dreamed of being a good lil’ wife, Sandra. Then I grew the fuck up. Then I realised he’d still be dippin’ his dick in some poor girls pussy down the whorehouse even if I gave him the whole fuckin’ world. So here I am. And here you are.”[/i][/quote]

Sandy had stopped serving drinks. His palms were flat on the bartop, inches from Pearl’s balled fists. A silence fell between them. It was thick as treacle. Molasses coating her teeth. She struggled to catch her breath, the confession of her juvenile dreams like a sullied gusset left face-up on the floor. Shame reddened the capillaries in her cheeks. Sandy didn’t notice. And if he did, he didn’t make her feel worse about it.

[quote] “[i]Well, Peaches…[/i]” he finally said, voice soft as a duckdown pillow. “[i]I don’t think you should give up your dreams so quick. There’s still sweetness left in you yet.[/i]”[/quote]

It wasn’t the first time Sandy Collington had left her speechless. He often spared a sentence or two that could leave her stumped as a quiet kid called upon in class. No one seemed to see her the way he did from the other side of that damned bar. He didn’t look through her. She wasn’t some frosted pane with a promise on the other side. He admired her like abstract art. With narrowed eyes and a quizzical half-smile on his face. Those stolen conversations in the Soirée witching hours were some of Pearly’s happiest memories. They were moments she lived and relived when she closed her eyes. His were the hands she imagined all over her when she was with the Johns he’d gotten drunk all night. Nothing ever happened between them. Not officially. Not properly. But Sandy and Pearl had a chemistry that not even Moira could ignore. It took the Madam months to grow tired of the two of them stealing glances from across the room and whispering private jokes from across the bar. She didn’t warn Pearly before she sacked him. Didn’t so much as hint at the idea. One night, Sandy was there, polishing glassware and slingshotting jokes at gawking Johns. Then, he wasn’t. He wasn’t there the next night. Or the next. Sandy was quickly and silently replaced by some nameless, faceless girl. The new girl didn’t know how to make Pearly’s Old Fashioned just right. And she certainly didn’t know Pearly was actually Peaches. Sandy took all of that with him. The nicknames. The late night chats that left Pearly less alone. It hurt much more than Theodore Buxton. And it hurt more than Tony’s signet ringed fingers coiled tight around her throat.