Short Story Junk Pile #1

i wrote this story for my capstone long ago, and it's not good enough to go anywhere but for the sake of an archive i figured i'd put it here. the original title is "Dire Magazine".

The Teenage Engineering OP-1 is a combination synthesizer and drum machine that has been developed to also be a sampler. It has a simple, sleek design, an aluminum body, rubber-wrapped keys, and a 24-hour battery life. Notably, Teenage Engineering increased the price by over 40% seemingly out of nowhere in February of 2019. Disturbing, if one was poor enough to care. However, if one is to buy a Teenage Engineering OP-1 on a whim, money is not of much consequence.

“It’s a synthesizer. Well, and a drum machine, too. It’s kinda like all that shit in one, you can make a lot on it. I heard about it from that kid Lukas.”

Alice turned the little device over in her hands, looking at it intently and running her long, thin fingers over the buttons and dials. She was interested, at least for now, in the new toy that her husband was presenting her.

“You know, you said you wanted to try new hobbies, and you always loved electronic music, so I figured you might want to give it a whirl. What do you think, baby?”

“Little fucker, isn’t it? I like the look of it, I’ll have to play around. Thank you…”

The couch, a darkly finished rich leather sectional, sat pushed against the back wall of the living room and underneath a large framed poster- Guerrilla Girls Review the Whitney in black writing, orange newsprint. Carved wooden shelves around the fireplace, books and records and a record player with a stereo to match. Alice and Travis Hanover had been, at this moment, married for almost ten years. A decade of marriage, beginning after five years of dating at age thirty-two and spanning until the present day, still going strong. Travis always told people they met through a friend, and Alice always told people the they met in a bar bathroom and didn’t learn each other’s names until months later after Travis broke it off with the boyfriend he had at the time. Alice only lied when it came to business, and Travis only lied to make Alice look better.

“Well, play with it. Show me what you make, I won’t be home until one or so, we’ve got a private rental for an engagement party dinner tonight.” Travis said, kissing his wife and getting up to pull his non-slip Dr. Martens on and pick up his keys from the coffee table.

“Sure thing, babe… I probably won’t be back ’til late anyway… I’m going out with Magdalena Cardonza from Arcana Mag tonight to get drinks… I’m funding their next issue. Well, not just me, but mostly me. Whatever. I’ll be home late.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you later, then.”

Travis didn’t have to work, not financially, at least. But he was a chef at a Michelin star restaurant, Tarte Tatin in Bushwick, and he wasn’t going to give up the lifelong learning of a craft because he married well.

Alice had dealt in the magazine business, she started a cultural commentary punk rock zine when she was still dropping out of high school that grew into a monster. She’d ran the whole thing for years- youth culture fashion, controversial writing pieces, and underground music- and it felt good to be the one leading the charge. Anyone who was anyone wanted in on it, the celebrity-decorated warehouse parties that turned into week-long drug benders and film photos of hipster girls with sailor tattoos in their underwear, the sort of shit-stirring publication that got journalists banned from red carpet events. Typically things that burn this bright don’t last forever, and when a new run of bitchy, internet-savvy New York City girl-mags started hitting the streets of Brooklyn, there was a certain understanding that she had to hang it up. Selling the company was easy- networks wanted to reboot it for controversial television and a nostalgia grab for the people who had aged just out of reach. Twenty-three million dollars. That was the final price of Dire Magazine, all the rights, the whole thing. Three years later, and Alice had still not figured out what to do with herself.

Every so often, one of these girl-run cultural or literary magazines would reach out to her and ask for advice or sponsorship. Alice had funded several issues of Arcana Mag before, she liked Magdalena because of how much of a bitch she was. Plus, after all the people she used to work with had graduated to the New York Times or a picket fence upstate, it was nice to have people to spend time with.

At eight-thirty, Alice started walking. Though she was starting to get comfortable to the feeling of people not recognizing her, she was never going to be free from the looks on the street. Alice was an intimidating woman- she was six-foot-three and nearly three-hundred pounds, curvy and broad-shouldered. She had always had red hair, which was the sort of thing that felt like a curse as a kid but quickly became her most standout feature. Unconventional, sure, but she was never lacking when it was time to find a date. In fact, it made it easy.

The bar was crowded, one of those upscale hipster joints with dried flowers hanging from the ceiling and a jukebox of soul 45’s. This new era of young Brooklyn transplants was much more refined than Alice’s wave- they’d spent their money on coke and skateboards and framed Dash Snow art prints, these kids were into hibiscus-infused Japanese liquor and one-off designer handbags. Magdalena Cardonza was a girl who knew how to make things happen. Maybe that’s why, in a packed bar on a Friday at nine o’clock, she was tucked away at a quiet corner booth. Alice slid into the booth, realizing that Magdalena had already ordered a bottle of wine for the table and was sitting there with her hands folded as if fifteen minutes early was somehow late. She always wore her dark hair slicked down to her head without a single stray, decorated with pink and white pearly barrettes, and she had on the kind of lipstick that always looked perfectly shiny. Her magazine was good, but what really got it far was how pushy she was. Persistence and daddy’s money had proved a particularly lethal combination.

“I ordered us a dry white. I wasn’t sure what you like.”

“If it’s booze, I’ll drink it. I’m not picky.”

“Believe it. Anyway, before I forget. We’re doing a huge launch party for this issue when it comes out. It’ll be next Saturday, I’ll send you the address the day of. I know that’s soon, but if we plan things too early the Redditors find out and they show up with picket signs calling us whores and post our home addresses on Twitter. Open bar, you can do a speech or something. We’ll also read from the mag. It’s gonna be big, I’ve got some celebrity guests on the line. Not that you aren’t used to famous friends. You can have a plus-one, bring your cutie husband.”

Alice was always ruffled when someone made mention of Travis like that. He was, simply put, hers. Mind, body, and soul, she wouldn’t think twice about him if she couldn’t have him all to herself. Travis got a lot of attention, especially from men. He was tall, thin as a rail, veiny hands and sunken cheeks. He dressed like Andy Warhol, that’s what Alice said when she met him. Striped t-shirts and bleached hair and tiny hoop earrings.

“Watch it, remember who’s writing the check for your fuckin’ magazine!”

“Oh, relax. I don’t want him. So you’re coming, right?” Magdalena scoffed, rolling her eyes and pouring them each a second glass of dry white and checking her phone notifications.

“I mean… I guess.”

Everything about Alice that was abrasive, angry, and intense was mirrored by Magdalena’s fuck-you attitude and sharp tongue.

Good conversation wasn’t the crown jewel of Magdalena’s qualities, but it was fun to listen to her talk behind the backs of everyone in every borough that had ever dealt in the written word while the bar filled over capacity around them. Alice just listened and let her keep refilling her glass. Three hours, two bottles of wine (both mostly taken care of by Alice), and one paper plane each later, and Magdalena’s cell phone began to light up.

“Well, I’ll see you next Saturday. You’d better be there, since your check is making it happen. I have a rave in the meat packing district to go to, I’m going to call a car.”

“I’ll be there. Don’t worry.”

Magdalena stood up, yanked down her fur-lined pearl pink slip dress, and marched out. Alice looked at the bill that had been so generously left for her, and threw down her card. It was fuzzy how much the bill was, so when it came back she just signed on the line and threw a fistful of cash on the table. The sea of twenty-somethings didn’t part for her, she excuse-me’d her way through and stumbled out the door onto the lit street. An unnoticed amount of time later, she found herself at the front door, trying to figure out which key fit in the lock.

“Hey, you. Do you need a hand?”

Travis was standing behind her, looking tired but not worse for the wear.

“Nah, I’ve almost got it.”

He nudged her hand aside and unlocked the door, holding it open and helping her in.

“So… you had a good time… I take it?”

Alice started to trip but caught herself by plopping down onto the couch, fumbling open the top few buttons of her shirt. Wine always made her feel so warm. “Oh, you know. You know, just the usual… she stuck me with the bill, I knew she would… She’s having some… some sorta magazine party next week… she said we have to go… can you get off work…?”

“We’re closing that day for Rico’s birthday, remember? I have to do a little bit of prep earlier in the day, but I can go. What am I supposed to wear to this?”

“Suit or something. Don’t look too good, I think she… wants to fuck you.”

“Come on now. She’s like twenty-two, doesn’t she still go to NYU?”

She reached up and grabbed his belt loops as he stood above her, yanking him down into the kneeling position on the hardwood. Alice reached her hands up to her husband’s face, pulling him towards her and clumsily sticking her tongue in his mouth. They kept going like that for a second, until she started to tug at his belt buckle and sat back on his heels. “Alice, come on baby. We can’t do that right now.”

She slouched back on the couch, groaning and rolling her eyes.

“Oh, why, come on! What’s the fuckin’ problem?”

“Not this again, if I’m sober and you’re not, I can’t do this with you. That’s wrong, I don’t want to do that to you.”

“You’re such a pussy, you know that? You’re such a… be a man, Travis, grow up. I’m your wife, I don’t give a shit if you’re sober. If I want to do it, let’s fucking do it. I don’t care.”

“No. I’m not doing that. Alice, you know I love you, baby, and you know I’d do anything for you! Just not that right now.”

“Fine, Travis, then you can sleep in the fucking… in the fucking… you can sleep in the other room, then! I’m going to bed, whatever…”

Travis sighed a sort of whatever you want and shut the door to the guest room behind him.

At two o’clock, Alice woke up. No sun, just a cloudy sky out the window. She had the remnants of a headache, but she’d been asleep so long that it almost had totally worn off. It was too late to lay around, so she dragged herself out of bed and went down to the kitchen in the same jeans and t-shirt she fell asleep in. Their kitchen was newly redone, lots of space in shiny wooden cabinets, a marble island, and green-tiled floors. Travis was downstairs in his running clothes, brewing a pot of coffee.

“Oh, good morning. How’d you sleep?”

“Too long, that’s how. Oh, you made me coffee… thank you! Sorry if I… I think that I yelled at you last night.”

“You’re fine, you were just being drunk and disorderly. What’s new, really.”

Travis was laughing, but she knew he meant it. Alice always treated drinking like it was something that just happened to her, and not something she did. She poured a cup of coffee and kissed her husband, and she shuffled into the room off of the living room that she kept all her shit in. Her office, at least it was, back when she had a job. Now it was just somewhere she sat all day and thought about what to do. She’d tried painting and sucked at it, she’d tried developing film and gave up before she could even see if it would work, and she’d always meant to learn guitar but instead it was sitting, broken, in the corner of the room. Alice was bad at everything, it seemed, except running a magazine. Her office was beautiful- a big former third bedroom of the townhouse with tall windows to the street, an antique desk, and an expensive computer. She had more books than anyone in the world, or at least it felt like that. She’d bought shelves along all the walls to hold them, and even still there was a stack on the ground next to the cast-aside Fender in the corner. Maybe she needed to listen to music to get into the mood to do something. Anything. She looked through a stack of records, and couldn’t think of anything, so she just pulled one out and put it on. M.D.C: Millions of Dead Cops. A hardcore band. Canadian, she’d found them when she was a teenager and doing a punk mixtape exchange with addresses she’d found in a Maximum Rock’n’Roll zine. Alice had always been into hardcore. Even now, she’d go to a show sometimes if someone worth seeing was around. Travis hated hardcore, but he was also the kind of guy who really liked Neutral Milk Hotel and Jeff Buckley. Bo-ring.

The Teenage Engineering OP-1 waited for her at her desk. It looked clean and modern, and she looked like shit and was wearing the same clothes for the second day. Maybe she should take a shower instead. If Travis had already woken up and worked out and went to the grocery store, she could stop being a shithead teenager sitting in a room listening to MDC and go get ready for the day. The attempt at using the OP-1 lasted no more than thirty minutes, before she became so enraged by her lack of ability to use it that she threw it to the side, leaving a scratch on her desk and a dent in the synthesizer’s sleek metal-plated side.

It was a bore to get ready for any day, because nothing ever seemed to be happening. All there was to do, it seemed, was listen to records, think of new things to try, masturbate, and wait for Travis to be around. Maybe she’d get a dog or something. As she ruminated, the first side of the record spiraled to completion and she was sitting in silence. The cars outside honked and filled the air with exhaust, and she decided that instead of looking out the window into the New York City gray, there had to be something that actually needed to be done.

Another gray morning came around on Thursday, much like every day before that. Alice woke up, again, with a pounding headache. She was supposed to get her hair cut today, but she’d accidentally slept long enough that the train wouldn’t get her to Manhattan on time. She’d have to reschedule sometime that day, though, before this launch party. As Alice pulled out her phone to call the hairdresser, it started ringing with Magdalena’s phone number.

Hello? Alice. Hey. I’m in a hurry, so I’ll make it quick. The party is at the St. George in the ballroom. I’d recommend booking a room if you want to get fucked up- this thing’s gonna rage all night.

Before Alice was even able to choke out a hello, the conversation was open, closed, and hung up. The St. George was all the way in fucking Tribeca, which meant there was most certainly going to be a room booking in Alice and Travis’s future. And there was- a top-floor suite, private elevator, the kind of room people lived in but would do for the night. If she was the one funding the god damn magazine, she was going to crash in the penthouse, not Magdalena Cardonza and whatever poor flavor-of-the-week girl she’d be dragging around by her tie all night.

A haircut and the painstaking choice of an outfit later, Alice could not hide from Saturday any longer, and it came knocking.

“Magdalena wants us to come in the side. She said don’t take off your jackets until you get in the side door, wherever the fuck that is. We have to say we’re with her.” Alice sighed, grinding out her cigarette under the toe of her oxblood brogue. Unsure of what chic meant in the minds of these little kids, she managed to dress herself in a tailored black jacket, matching Dickies, and a shirt that matched her shoes. Travis was instructed to not look too good, so he held himself back to a pair of black linen pants a tight t-shirt.

The side door was being watched by a Magdalena pseudo-clone with an ear piece, who hustled them into the building’s gold-plated hallway with a great sense of inconvenience. The room was luxurious and as big as the first floor of their house in Brooklyn, floor to ceiling windows and wine-colored sheets. Travis set their bags down on the bed and looked up at his wife, watching her pace around the room, twisting the rings on her fingers.

“Don’t burn a hole in the floor there, baby! Are you nervous?”

“No, I’m not. Why would I be fucking nervous, Travis? I’m paying for this whole god damn thing! Nervous! Come on.” She stopped, looming over him sitting on the edge of the bed, digging her fingers between the silver band of her watch and her wrist.

“Jesus, sorry! It’s okay, you’re not nervous, fine. It’s okay, you know. To be nervous. Public speaking makes everyone nervous.”

“Oh, who fucking cares? We should probably get down there, anyways… Do you wanna do a shot first?”

“Sure. Why not…”

Everyone in the downstairs ballroom had most certainly seen the inside of a high school classroom in the past seven years. Everyone but Alice. Over the past few years, the final holdouts from her Dire days had finally faded out. Two double whiskey neats down with a grimace, and she was being intercepted on the way to her table by the woman of the hour herself. Adorned in a floor-length mint green silk dress and gelled-smooth space buns, leading around some short-haired girl whose Calvins hung out over her pants.

“Oh, good. You’re here. And on time, too. Do you like the dress? Miu Miu. This is Adeline, by the way. Hi, Travis!”

Travis couldn’t even bring himself to wave, just smile and nod at her as Alice side stepped closer to him with narrowed eyes.

“Hey. Yeah, we made it. What’s the order of ceremonies at this thing? When am I talking?”

“Oh, I decided that you aren’t going to have to speak. Cut for time, y’know?”

“So… not at all? Like, I don’t have to be in front of people at all tonight?”

“No. Go crazy. I have to run. You’re at table fourteen, by the way.”

Her platforms stomped across the ballroom floor, Adeline trotting behind her, Magdalena’s purse in her hand. Alice sighed and dragged her palms down her face, turning to Travis with hollow eyes.

“So why am I even here, then? Christ. Can you find our table? I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Sure, baby, yeah…”

Alice, already feeling the buzzing in her head, started back to the bathroom. Past girls in Maison Margiela off-the-model dresses and mesh t-shirts drinking out of champagne flutes, looking through her and forgetting to move out of her way until the noise dulled within the confines of a marble-walled restroom with three gold stalls and the kind of sinks that are all just one flat trough. Adeline was standing at the mirror, ruffling her mullet and making sure her jeans sagged just low enough.

“Hey! Alex, right?”

“…Alice. Yeah.” Magdalena’s puppy dog and she couldn’t be bothered to listen.

“Oops, sorry! Wanna do a line?”

Alice shrugged, letting this twenty-two year old dump and lay out a few big lines on top of the silver paper towel dispenser. They took turns with a rolled up fiver until all four were gone. Alice felt a burn in her throat that was usual and familiar but never got easier.

“Oh, boy… that’ll do ya…God damn. Thanks…” She said, holding back a sneeze.

“Sure thing. See you out there, Magdalena is looking for me.”

Alice fixed her crooked collar in the mirror, pinching her nose and brushing back her hair. She came across the bar for another drink on her way to Travis, slamming one and grabbing another for the road. Upon her return to the table, she found a tall, pretty looking boy with curly hair and angel-wing tattoos talking to her husband.

“Well, Travis, if you ever change your mind, let me know!”

“I don’t think I will, uh, so…” He stuttered, looking at Alice out of the side of his glance.

“Cheers, then.” The boy winked at Travis, sauntering away into the crowd.

Alice stopped in her tracks next to Travis, watching the boy walk away through burning eyes.

“Who the fuck was that?”

“Some kid, I don’t know. I didn’t want him to talk to me, I wasn’t responding.”

“I’ll go fucking talk to him if he decides to keep looking over here.”

“Alice, it’s fine. Just don’t worry about it right now, nothing happened.”

She grumbled something tasteless under her breath as she sat back down at the table. The ceremonies begun with some readings of the vapid short stories that made up the front of the magazine. Smut about older men and orgies, things meant to be “off the wall” and edgy that were really just deep indicators of how easy all these people had had it all their lives.

“And, you know what…” Magdalena said, scanning the room with narrowed eyes.

“…I said that we didn’t want to hear from her, but you know what, let’s get her up here. Alice Hanover… Alice… you wanna get up here?”

No way was she putting her on the spot to come up and fucking speak. The crowd was all turned, for the first time able to see her, and the pressure of being on the spot was something that she couldn’t say no to. She made eye contact with Travis, sure she looked like someone staring down the barrel of a gun, and got up out of her seat, trying not to stagger too much as she slammed the drink in her hand and made her way up next to Magdalena on the stage. She’d suffer for this. Oh, would she.

“Alright, folks, you might know her from her old magazine, Dire, but you probably just know her from her name on the check that made this happen, Alice Hanover everyone!”

Silence, except for the occasional popcorn-lung vape cough ringing out, and Alice’s hands and face felt numb, and the faces looked pleasantly fuzzy even though she felt a deep pain dragging from the crown of her head down to her chest, wet heat behind her eyes.

“Magdalena! Thank you, you flatter me. I know that you wish it was your dad writing it but you know, NYU is expensive, and I’m unsure of whether or not he has your phone number written down anywhere-“ Laughter from the crowd. Score. “-but enough about that. Thank you to everyone from Arcana Mag for giving me a chance to speak here, and for everyone who took time away from doing poppers in the dock warehouse to come party on my dime. I would do the same! I hear if we’re lucky, they’ll get Lena Dunham to speak at the next one.”

(Magdalena was deeply involved with a financial conflict with Lena Dunham for ripping some of the material from Girls in the last published issue, and things were not looking good for her.)

“My advice to you all is to write about everything, no matter how bad it looks, no matter if it was supposed to be a secret. Go to jail, who cares. Other people’s loose lips will sink their ship, so there’s more room in the water for you. And speaking of loose lips… well, thank you once again to Magdalena for having me, and thank you all. Have a good night.”

On her way off the stage, Magdalena growled something at her that she couldn’t make out and she didn’t quite care. Travis was waiting for her with a devilish smile.

“You’re such a bitch, you know that? God, that was fantastic, she wants to kill you…”

“I can’t believe she did that… that’s what she fucking gets, sorry!” Alice kissed her husband and laughed, acutely aware of how that last drink was starting to make her words run together. A certain fuzziness blocked out whatever Magdalena was managing to say to save face on the microphone. Applause from the audience, and a young guy with a cheetah-print dyed buzz cut came around with the promotional materials, Arcana Mag printed condoms. Alice accepted, smirking at Travis and sliding it into her pocket. Cheetah boy turned to Travis, handing him two.

“This one’s for you… and the second one’s for me later…”

He blew a cheeky kiss and walked away while Travis was left sitting in a fearful silence.

“No. Fucking. Way. Why the fuck are all these guys all over you? Is there something going on here that I don’t know about, are you on Grindr behind my back or something? I’m going to find him later, I’m not letting that slide. What the fuck, Travis? Are you fucking serious?”

“I didn’t do anything, it’s not my fault when someone hits on me!”

“I’m going to the room. I can’t be in here any more, holy shit… I’m going to lose my mind, I’m going to lose my god damn mind, I’m gonna lose it, fuck…”

Travis didn’t want to encourage a scene, so he let her get up and hurry away. He’d come find her. She staggered into the elevator and up to the room swiping the key card once, then again, then again until the click behind the door allowed the handle to turn, letting her spill into the hotel room. She stumbled a little, gathering her balance with a hand on the foot of the bed frame, and found herself eye to bloodshot eye with her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

How passé, she thought as her mouth started filling with saliva, to wear a fucking buttoned shirt and jacket. No wonder Travis was looking for some young ass at this thing, when she was so fucking boring. Was it always this tight? Did the fabric always pull apart between the buttons, was she always such a washed up slob? Fuck! Normally, Alice didn’t mind taking up so much physical space. But what’s the point, if no one even notices you? Are you just big, for no reason?

Alice felt the ache in her bent knees as they dug into the tile floor, her hair falling into her face as she choked and gagged over the toilet bowl. Tears filled her eyes, maybe because Travis was somewhere fucking a guy in a mesh shirt, or possibly just from minutes of heaving into the porcelain to no avail. When nothing was coming up, she sat back against the side of the bathtub, unbuttoning the top few of the shirt, feeling squeezed by her belt and undoing it. She’d never puked alone before this year. There was always pretty girls in animal print skirts and shutter shades there to hold her hair back in the bathroom of the party, people who knew her name that she’d never remember. Jesus Christ. Her chest was starting to hurt.

The lock on the room clicked open, and Travis slammed the door behind him.

“Where have you been? Were you getting a quickie in down there?” She couldn’t help herself, she spit it out at him from the bathroom floor.

“Were you always such a fucking wreck, Alice? Were you always so miserable?” Travis threw back at her, looming down from the doorway.

“You’re such a pussy, Travis, and maybe I’m pissed because I’m sick of a bunch of 24 year olds hitting on you! And you let them! What, do you want to go suck one of them off? Go ahead, Travis, I’ll be fine!”

“Does it not mean anything to you that I MARRIED you? And you’re awfully fucking jealous of me doing nothing at all for someone who made me spend the night with... I didn’t want to, I didn’t want to see you with someone else and I didn’t want to touch him because you’re my wife! It didn’t matter that he was a guy, I always just want you! My sexuality is a closed case, Alice. Is yours? Because I had to be okay with that. You wouldn’t let me not be.”

For someone so slight, Alice couldn’t see around him in the doorway, hanging over her like a specter in all black, his deep-set eyes blazing.

“No, you can’t turn that around on me. You said it was okay. You said whatever you want, babe! Whatever you want, I’d try that. I asked if you felt weird about it being him, and you said it was fine. So don’t fucking turn that around. That’s not fair.” She stood up, steadying herself against the pedestal sink so he could remember how much taller she really was.

“I couldn’t tell you know! I never can, you don’t take no for an answer, or you throw a fit! You are so pathetic. You know what I liked about you, Alice? Not what made me fuck you, what made me marry you? I liked that you cared about things. All you do is mope around and complain, and yell at me, and fucking drink! I’m bored. You’re boring me. God, you’re so miserable. Life isn’t over just because you don’t have a magazine, Alice. We’re not old. We’re not even fifty, for fuck’s sake, is this how you want to go down? Is it just done, then?”

She tried to frown, but her lip quivered too hard, and Travis’s harsh expression softened when he realized that she wasn’t going to throw back some sort of crass remark.

“Alice, seriously, don’t cry, stop. Why are you… don’t start shit with me if you can’t take it, alright? I don’t want to be upset with you, it’s just… how much shit am I supposed to take from you?”

“I don’t fucking know, Travis. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I want to go home.”

“That would be awfully pathetic, don’t you think? To just leave because people aren’t paying you enough attention, or whatever this is? You could never have kids, you know that? I wouldn’t want you getting shitfaced at a piano recital because you’re not on the fucking stage…” He laughed dryly, and even though he wasn’t frowning anymore it was apparent that he wasn’t going to move any closer towards her. Alice had started to become jealous of him recently, in a way. She’d been starting to show her age, and her husband looked exactly like he did the day they met. If she squinted, he almost still had eyeliner smudged under his eyes like he’d always used to wear.

“Am I really that awful?”

“You might be. I’m still deciding. I still think it’s… you can’t be so violent about someone showing interested in me when I let your ex boyfriend fuck you in front of me, that’s all…”

“That was a year ago, Travis. And he was my ex boyfriend from… Jesus, I don’t know, before I met you! That was a lifetime ago, it wasn’t…”

“A lifetime ago, and yet… there he was in my house. And at all of our parties, and at a bar with us, and on vacation with us…” Travis scoffed, narrowing his eyes and finally stepping towards her. Normally this is the time where they’d kiss and make up, but nothing about his approach felt comforting. Alice was so drunk and sick that it was hard to keep standing, and the cool tile had begun to look much better than leaning against the sink and fearing Travis’s forward motion.

“…and on your phone, you know, and I don’t say anything. I don’t say anything because I love you. I let you torture me every single day, and I don’t say anything! And what’s the point, really? It’s no use even fighting with you right now, you can hardly form a coherent sentence. But what do I do, Alice? What do I do with you?”

“I’m sorry, Travis. I’m sorry.”

Maybe she was going to say it again, but it was preceded by the puke that finally came, filling up her mouth and making her jerk around and gag into the sink. More and more and still more, until Travis took enough pity to pull back her hair out of her face.

“You’re going to kill us both, you know… ah, Jesus…”

Alice expelled the rest of her guts into the sink and then the toilet, and the paused in the mirror again. Her mascara was still intact. All her eye makeup was still intact, actually. Maybe just a little smudged. Travis sighed, walking back out to the room and sitting on the bed. She washed the puke off of her face and her shirt with the bar of hotel soap, and she staggered back out to the California King next to him.

“What do we do, then? Go back down there?” Travis finally spoke.

“I guess so. I can’t just disappear, especially not after that speech.”

“Do you need to change… or anything?”

“No, it’s fine. Who cares, anyways, no one’s looking. Travis, I really am sorry.”

“Let’s go, shall we?”

Travis couldn’t quite meet her eyes as he held out his hand to help her up off the bed. The door automatically locked behind them as they rode the elevator down to the party, which was in the bar of the hotel. Under the dim lamplight, Alice hoped she didn’t look like quite as much of a mess. She waded through the young and beautiful, wishing still that she was on the bathroom floor, following Travis back to the bar. He handed her a shot of something brown, and it went down like battery acid but at least it stayed there.

“There’s someone here from Bon Appetit, I want to go talk to him. I’ll see you in a bit. If you feel too sick, go back to the room.”

She just nodded back at him, and plopped down into the barstool closest to her. He looked good walking away, fixing his hair with his fingers and gently parting the crowd on his way through. Her belt was still unbuckled, she reached down and fixed it and leaned her back against the bar, steadying herself on the stool.

The kids were drinking, they were laughing and dancing shoulder to shoulder. She wondered who was fucking who, who was going home in the wee hours to sit on the floor of a dirty apartment and laugh about the night together. Would they be doing MDMA and kissing, or leaving for a secret show in an airplane hangar? Magazines would pile up on and off of shelves, full of invincible people, full of golden shining stars and the things they’d made.

Alice looked around the party and thought about who still really cared.