Who: Holly + Sam
What: Well it's
not cookery lessons
Warnings: Language from the start, probably.
[The club engorged with people the later at night it got. It started out as a trickle, one or two guys, like Boston, who sat at the bar and
kind of looked. It was an steady drip during the time husbands came home and kissed their wives and kissed the kids or whatever, and ate dinner and put the kids to bed and then? Then they came to the club, where the edge of town oozed music and a good time, until it bilged at the seams, swollen on dollar bills and ten dollar glasses of whiskey. She'd gotten an upgrade. Partly, it was the fact that girls didn't stick long in the bar, and partly it was that Holly didn't look like the kind of girl who'd slit her wrists in the bathroom or go on stage off her face. She took her cash, she went home to the place in the neighborhood with the loud neighbor and the menagerie of animals, and she sat with kittens in her lap and counted bills, stuffing an envelope that was never going to be full
enough.
Because it wasn't. Repose didn't come with price-tags. It was ordinary that way, it couldn't be bought and traded the same way shit in the Capital could, and even the girls selling sex on the edge of town, the cops knew who they were by name. But no price-tags? Meant no
idea how much it would cost to be normal and Holly's head rang after nights that were busy with Eddie's suggestion about growing
up. She didn't want to, but she filled the envelope, and she'd gotten an upgrade to make it fatter.
She'd gotten an upgrade and she was spat out now when the street lamps glowed and dusk was still thick, smoky pink overhead. Dollar bills in her pockets and slick with glitter, damp curls knotted high on the crown of her head and a faded satchel hung over her body, cross-wise, stuffed with the club clothes and split-cornered stretch of torn fabric through which the pencil was trying to slide, along with the spiral corner of her notebook. She wore washed-thin neon orange shirt over bleach-spattered cut-offs and lemon-yellow tights under those and she headed for the diner with the pulse of the club in her head and she wound a loose curl round her finger slowly as she thought about the bus station and the trip into the city. It simmered pink, that curl, in the wash of streetlight and as she rounded the corner to the shitty diner that stayed open all night and was
cheap the way the good one wasn't so much. She sat, in a split-plastic booth with her pink curl bouncing against her cheek, and she flipped open her pad and ordered coffee, and a burger and she drew the outline of the sour-looking line cook, as she sucked down iced-coffee until the cubes clinked against the glass.
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