Morgan And Jackie

cosmopolitan_e “Can we just go upstairs, just for a moment, and talk. Please?”

“Oh, but Sweetie, the band has just started and I wanted to watch the cute saxophone player. I can’t believe he hasn’t asked me out yet. What a dull idiot. Do you know, Sweetie, when I was in London they called them saxophonists? ‘Sax –aw- phinist’. It sounds…somehow…dirty”, she said as she lifted her martini to her lips, trying her best to look like an ad she’d seen in Vanity Fair just that afternoon. She was drinking a martini more for the affectation than the effect, but it was lost as the drink had been poured into a regular plastic rock glass, the sort of which one might drink a regular old gin and tonic from.

“Just wait until they take their break, Darling, and we can go upstairs if you must. It’s just that the people on the patio are so, I don’t know… Proletariat”.

“Jackie, your father was a farmer”, said the other girl, exhaustion evident on her face.

“Must you speak so LOUDLY, Darling?”, said Jackie, looking around the room to see if anyone had seen the pose she had struck, and then vastly disappointed as she realized no one was looking.

“Jackie, I need to talk to you and for the love of G-d, will you please stop calling me ‘Sweetie’ and ‘Darling?’”

“Fine then, Sugar Plum”, said the girl who had, in that moment, reduced herself to a posture. “If it is so important to you to tear me away from this incredibly fantastic and hedonistic celebration of life and music and away from the eyes of a potential lover, then I suppose we must adjourn to the sitting space of your dreary and intensely Unpretty people so that you may regale me with whatever perceived drama you may have invented for yourself, Daaaaarling”.

“Must you be so pretentious and mean? Remember, I knew you when you were just a farmer’s daughter”, the girl said in an effort to bring her friend back to reality.

“Darling, we don’t ALL end up in the place that we came from, and besides, unlike you and my family, I’m interesting”, she said as she brought her martini to her lips, still scanning the room to see who might be watching her.

“You’re right, Jackie. You are interesting. So much more so than I, as you’ve traveled and seen things I may never be able to.”

It was obvious the girl was being diplomatic. She brushed an errant strand of hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear, and said, “What I need right now is to talk to my friend Jackie. Please? It won’t take long.”

Jackie looked at the floor, quickly up, her eyes rolling dramatically, an angry smile upon her face, her countenance offended and belligerent.

“Darling, I have asked you to call me Jacqueline”.

The other girl looked away, dejected. Frustrated. Unsure of how to proceed. She lay her hands one on top of the other in her lap with decided concentration, frowning, as though if she were to place them incorrectly, some terrible thing might happen. She could feel the eyes of her friend burning into her, but knew that the burns were only as superficial as her friend’s desire for martinis and sax-aw-phinists. She smiled, thinking of all they had been through, and with no small degree of sentimentality raised her head and looked at her friend. She could not help but smile.


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