Everyone
was drunk by the time the women started taking off their tops and
shooting Polaroids of their boobs. The party was for Charlene. She
wasn't going away, just quitting, but that hadn't stopped anyone from
coming for one last farewell.
Brian,
the only guy in the room, was asked to leave. He told the men in the
backyard what was happening. The men went to the windows, but the
shades were closed. The women were giggling.
Charlene's
husband was away on business. "I hate that jerk," she told
the women, half serious.
She
held up her blouse, showed them the burn spot next to her navel.
"He
did that?" Rachael asked.
"Sex,"
Charlene said. "I like kinky."
Bea
showed a hickey she had on her nipple, Trish a bruise on her hip,
Lucille a welt on her behind.
"I've
had it with men," Charlene teased.
"We
all have," said Bea.
They
took more pictures, drained more bottles. The men peered at the
blinds, beat on the doors, grew restless and heavy on booze.
Jon
Morgan Davies
The
Miracles of Antichrist
Selma Lagerlof