Impact 04: of Fascists

"Your father was talking to Danny the other day... he had waited for you to get over this city thing, but you took too long and he's met someone else."

"Mom, I really don't ca-"

"Listen to me Sarah Beth, you're my only daughter. Danny is a good man," she told me. I thought of Danny calling me a cold bitch as he walked out on me. I remembered his resentment and the little put downs, the belittling phrases he would use to diminish me and make me feel worthless over the years; it feels like my whole life.

A rage boiled within me, and I was afraid I would yell at her, that if I said anything at all I'd scream. I had my hand clamped over my mouth and my eyes squeezed shut against the tears I felt sure were coming. I could hardly breathe.

"I spoke to Father Mike," she says quietly after a very long silence. Maybe she sensed she'd gone too far. "He's Catholic Workers. They're... you'll like them. He said you haven't stopped by yet, you really should."

The silence stretched, but I felt my breathing calm, the threat of tears receded.

"I will when I have time, mom. I'll talk to you later." I replied, and hung up. I'd never hung up on my mother, but I couldn't stand it anymore.

I lay in bed thinking about Danny, all the shitty things he said to me, about my weight, my looks, about me not being smart enough. I wondered about his new girlfriend, wonder who she is, how they met. I surprised myself by not feeling jealous or even sad. I felt relieved.

'He's her problem now,' I thought.

I started to text Claire, when I noticed I had an alert. There was a message waiting for me from Roger, a guy I'd never met, but who I'd been flirting with on and off for weeks.

The next day Claire texted to ask if I wanted to go out Friday night. I felt strangely guilty telling her that I'd agreed to go out with Roger, but she seemed excited and wanted to know all the details.

"The bike shop guy!"

I had told her about Roger before, and she was excited that he had finally committed to meeting in real life.

Roger had come across as really cool and interesting. He ran a bike shop on the Lower East Side and had suggested a restaurant I'd been looking forward to trying.

I wore my hair up in my best Audrey Hepburn approximation and chose one of the vintage dresses my mother had given me - the one I think of as my First Date Little Black Dress. It's black, of course, but it has a rectangular front with no neckline - which is nice, for eye contact. It's not dowdy, however, it's sleeveless and has an open back with a lovely big bow and is dangerously short.

"It makes an impression without leaving a mark," I thought, looking at myself in the mirror.

I wore my highest heels, because the FDLBD is ALL about the legs and ass, and because Roger's profile says he's 6'1".

"And if he's lying, fuck him if he can't take a joke," I told myself as I did my lips. I chose the red - I'm excited!

But when I saw Roger I was disappointed. He was wearing dockers, pleated khakis, a corny polo shirt with a little American flag instead of the RL pony, and was really out of shape. I think he saw my disappointment because he apologized for it, saying he'd injured his knee and hadn't been able to ride all summer. I felt bad and told myself I was being shallow, feeling really guilty for a minute. I told him he was being silly. But then, when we'd been seated, he made a point of ordering for me.

Absolutely clueless.

"Trust me, you'll love it."

"I'm a vegetarian, Roger."

"The meat is so tender, one bite and you'll want to stop being a vegetarian."

"I can come back?" the waiter offered, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"No," Roger told him. "We're good. That's the order."

I was stunned. I excused myself and stood, not sure where I was going. Surprised to find myself walking to the bathroom and not the exit. The waiter looked surprised too.

'I'm such a fucking wimp,' I thought as I crossed the dining room in a daze. My skin felt hot, but my body was cold; disconnected.

As I wove my way through the dining room I looked at my phone, no new messages. I felt disappointed; told myself I was being silly.

I open the door to the ladies room and Claire is looking at herself in the mirror. For a moment I think I must be imagining her. Our eyes connect, I'm staring at her in shock.

"Stalker much?" Claire jokes.

"What are you...? I was actually just thinking about you," I stammered, trying to remember if I had told Claire about the restaurant or not.

"Yeah?" Her lips curl up at the side, a half smile. "When my date told me he wanted to meet here, I wondered if I'd see you, but of course we would only find each other in the bathroom!"

"Here we are again." I agree.

"Look at how cute you are!" Claire exclaims as she notices my dress. "Oh my God, turn around!"

"You are too much," I laugh, but I do as I'm told and spin for her, kicking back one foot in a coquettish pose so she can see my heels.

"I can't stand it!" she howls, her voice echoing off the tile, then catching herself she shoos me towards a stall. "Go do your thing, I'll wait!"

"I don't actually have to," I admit. Then seeing her look of concern, I admit, "I came here to hide from my date for a while."

"Oh no, what's happened, I thought the bike shop guy was promising?"

"He's a total asshat," I admit, but really I was thinking, 'I wish he was more like you.'

"I'm so sorry Sarah." Her face has fallen. She looks genuinely sad. I wish I had gone out with her tonight instead of Roger. I feel stupid.

"Tell me about yours?"

"He called me fat."

I am dumb struck. This isn't me being generous about the beauty of a big girl, this is me in genuine shock and disbelief that anyone could think Claire was fat. It's certainly not her outfit, her dress leaves NOTHING to the imagination. Her silky little shift is fitted at the waist and hardly more than a slip. She's wearing a sheer bra with it, the beautifully stitched straps of it mixing suggestively with the spaghetti straps of the dress on her bare shoulders. Her arms are thin and lean - she has triceps. God I wish I had triceps. She has the figure of a dancer or an athlete - tall and lean with square shoulders.

Sometimes when I'm away from Claire I think I'm guilty of idealizing her, that no one is that pretty.

'But good Christ, sheis that beautiful,' I think, looking at her.

Claire makes a show of looking over her shoulder at her butt. The fabric of her dress is tight across her cheeks, and they are big enough to make the short hem stand away from the back of her thighs. I can see the faint lines of her panties riding low on her ass. I feel a spike of shame as I realize I know the lingerie she's wearing, but there's NO fat. Her ass is narrow and powerfully muscular looking. Her long legs are smooth and tan. There's not a dimple of cellulite on her. She sticks out her lip in a pout, making a joke, but eyes look truly hurt.

"He said I need to lose ten pounds of 'useless fat' from my ass and thighs, and that art is a lifestyle not a profession."

"He's negging you," I tell her, my body is cold and rigid. I can feel my bones. I'm so angry.

It's her turn to look confused.

"He thinks he's a fucking pick-up artist and he's fucking negging you." I have never been more confident of anything in my life.

"No, he's just a fitness guy," she says, weakly. But she looks so unsure, so confused - I've never seen her like this. "He owns a gym, I think he was-"

"The ONLY reason anyone would tell you that you need to lose ten pounds is because they think if they can run you down enough that you'll sleep with them," I tell her. "You are easily the most beautiful fucking woman I've ever known."

She looks startled. I wonder if I've crossed a line but I feel a rage boiling in me that is so powerful it makes me dizzy. I want to lash out, to explode. I try to focus on Claire. A new look comes over her face, sly and appraising.

"You're right Sarah. What a fucking jerk," she says, a confidence returning to her voice. "And you know the fucked up part, I really was going to fuck him - not because he was 'nogging' me, but because it's been sooo fucking long, I'm ready to take down one of the busboys and fuck him out there in front of everyone!"

A toilet flushes and after a short pause a woman steps out from one of the stalls. She's five or ten years older than us, but super fit and beautifully put together. She looks like a powerhouse. We watch quietly as she washes her hands and checks her makeup. As she steps to the door to leave she stops and looks over our shoulders at Claire in the mirror.

"You deserve better than him, but maybe leave the busboys be? Certainly not out there, not right now, people are trying to eat, after all," she says with a wink and a knowing smile to Claire. Then turning to me she smiles and says, "And she's right, you look beyond gorgeous in that dress - you're both darling. Fuck those guys, you can both do better."

I almost guffaw, but stop myself seeing Claire's bravado collapse as the disappointment sets in. She is past the jokes of tackling a busboy. She looks truly sad as the woman walks out. Hearing from a stranger what a total dirtbag her date pushes her over the edge, like she might cry. I can't stand it.

"Come on," I tell her, taking her hand, we exit the restroom, and I squeeze. "Which one is the jerk?"

She points. He's bearded, dressed in a fitted suit that shows off his muscles, his hair is precision-barbered in some sort of proto-fascist Weimar Republic throwback, cut to a fade on the sides and back, long hair slicked back over the top of his head. He looks like a muscle bound dandy.

"Yuck."

"I know..." she agrees miserably.

"Are you done with him?" I ask.

"Totally."

"Good."

Giving her hand another reassuring squeeze, I lead her past my table, where my date starts to rise. "Sit down Roger." Roger drops back into his seat as we pass. The Fitness Guy looks at me with interest as we approach hand in hand. I give him a smokey smile and slowly dump his wine glass into his lap.

"FUCK!" He jumps up, knocking his chair back and down. "STUPID FUCKING BITCH!" He is bright red and enormous.

"You shit!!" I hiss, so only he can hear. "You want to lose ten useless pounds? Start by cutting off your fucking head!"

For an instant I'm sure he's going to hit me, not slap me, but really punch me with a closed fist. The restaurant is silent. Everyone freezes except for the staff who are converging on the table. I feel Claire squeezing my hand with all her strength and realize I'm squeezing hers with all of mine. Veins are rising on his forehead and bulging above his perfectly starched collar. I'm terrified, but I hold his gaze. My body is taut, but feels cool, my breathing smooth.

'Don't you even realize it's over meathead?' I wonder as I glare up at him, picturing his fist caving in my skull.

"Fuck you and your tiny, limp dick, ten second, pity fuck grift," I growl at him through gritted teeth.

He's undone. And part of me isn't surprised to see him look away first. His eyes begin to dart around the room and his face distorts as he absorbs the silent disapproval all around us.

He glances down at his red wine soaked stomach and crotch, then past me at Claire.

"You're fucking paying for this BITCH."

He's looking around at the other diners, the staff who are now stepping between us, but not me; never at me. Unmanned; he's lost.

"No, it's my treat," I tell him with a cold smile. "I insist." Throwing two twenties on the table, I turn to Claire and say "Come on, let's get out of here."

Taking Claire's hand we walk past my date who is again starting to stand, "Fuck off Roger."

As we leave the restaurant, I apologize to the hostess and hand her the rest of my twenties.

"My apologies to the staff," I tell her.

We all but run to the corner. I can't stop thinking about what just happened, what could have happened, what could still happen. I fully expect the fascist to boil out of the restaurant behind us. I'm looking back and over to Claire, she looks scared too. My heart is thundering as we jump into a taxi and Claire gives him the address of her place. I collapse against her.

"Oh my God Sarah! Where did that come from?!? That was incredible!!!" Claire is laughing, but sounds a little hysterical. But she puts her arm around me and kisses my cheek. I can feel her shaking... or maybe it's me.

"I don't know. I just... He just... He can't..." my mind was still racing, I'm the one shaking. The adrenaline is abandoning me. "Jesus, he was gigantic!"

"You're shaking," Claire hushes, wrapping me in her arms.

"I'm ok," I protest, but she just squeezes me tighter and holds me that way, pinning me, forcing me to be still. I feel safe in her arms.

"You are more than ok, you're my hero," she gushes quietly into my ear, her lips close, voice calm and full of admiration. "That woman was right, we both deserve so much better than those jerks. But HOLY SHIT what was it you said to him? All I heard was something about a limp dick gift?!"

When the cab pulls up to Claire's place, I pay the driver and follow her out, only as we climb the steps up to her apartment does it occur to me that neither of us had said anything about me coming up, that it was just assumed.

Claire opens a bottle of wine, telling me about its terroir. It sounds expensive and, as just as she describes, smells wonderful. Holding her glass high she toasts me.

"Ta grandesse! Ma championne! Ma meilleure copine!" she declares, as if making an announcement to a large cheering crowd. I laugh, only half understanding what she's saying, but getting the gist. She dances me around her lounge laughing. Claire's laughter sounds like a little girl's. It's infectious. I laugh too, caught up in her excitement. I'm like a doll in her arms.

We stay up rehearsing the events of the night, sitting on the sofa together, I'm leaning back into Claire, who is holding me around the shoulders, laughing and marveling again and again at my outburst. In the cab, even with Claire squeezing me tight, I'd started feeling ashamed of what I'd done, I'd been imagining what my mother would think, but hearing Claire rehearse it makes me feel proud.

But we drink too much wine, and neither of us ate dinner on our aborted dates, it finally all hits me, like running head first into a wall. My adrenaline rush is gone, I'm drunk and starting to unravel. Claire sees it and gathers me up.

"Let's go to bed," she says, offering her hand, pulling me off the sofa. "You look exhausted."

I go into the bathroom. Claire had put out a new toothbrush for me the night I met her at the MoMA reception. It had been waiting for me when we got back to her place, still sealed in its box. I had told her I wouldn't come, yet she prepared for me all the same. It was such a small gesture, but I had felt so loved. Now it's in the cup with hers, but she's pushed the bristles of our brushes together, so they look like lovers embracing. I laugh, struck anew by how lucky I am to have found Claire.

She comes bouncing into the bathroom wrapped in a towel, babbling happily, and grabs her toothbrush, her story becoming an incoherent mush as she brushes and babbles, making me laugh 'til I cry.

We wash our faces and I follow her into the bedroom. Listening to her drunken litany. She drops her towel and climbs into bed naked. Still laughing and going on. My whole body reacts to the sight, my heart leaping and my breath stopping short.

'It's just Claire,' I remind myself.

Listening to her, I reach behind me and unzip the FDLBD, pushing it off my shoulders I let it drop to the floor. She's laying on her side, the covers up to her hips, I can just see her little blonde bush peeking out. She is unselfconsciously recounting some bit of nonsense as I reach back and take off my bra. The lights are still on, the giant insect-eye chandelier fills the room with light. I think about someone watching us as I look at my reflection in the giant double hung windows. My nipples are swollen and hard. I drop my bra to the floor.

I look down at my panties thinking about what they conceal. I think of her cumming, of our legs touching.

'It's just Claire,' I tell myself, remembering her wet hand on my thighs. Remembering our orgasms.

'It's just us.'

I push my panties down off my hip, watch as they fall down my legs, dropping to my feet; heavy with damp.

"Sarah!" she breathes.

Claire is smiling, she watches me as I step out of my panties. I start to cover myself, touching the smooth shaved skin of my mons.

"Please don't," she whispers, stopping me, her smile a bit mischievous. "I never imagined that you would shave... pictured you as maybe a treasure trail girl."

"I haven't always," I admit, imagining unseen watchers as I move my hand entirely out of the way, hiding it behind my back, letting her see. "Do you like it?"

"Very much," she says seriously. "So very pretty, such a wonderful surprise. Did you do it for a boy?"

"No," I admit, " ...not a boy."

I walk over to the bed, slipping my legs under the covers and laying down next to her. The sheets are halfway up our thighs now. I don't pull them up and neither does she. Claire's nipples are hard and dark, her belly moving with short little breaths. The buildings across the street are so close, Claire's windows are so large. It's not that late, people are still awake. I picture someone watching us, seeing us naked, facing each other like this. Claire, who is usually so interested in my breasts, is focused on my lap.

"I've shaved mine, but only to please boys... men, never for myself," she continues. She is touching her little bush idly, pinching and pulling at the tuft of short hairs. "But you are so much yourself. You surprise me Sarah. You are bold in such unexpected ways."

Her face resting close to mine, our lashes almost touching. Her eyes are soft and bright, she kisses me on the forehead, and then again on the cheek.

"Thank you so much for defending me, mon courageux ange gardien. He got so mad, I was very afraid, but you weren't, you were so brave," she's barely murmuring, stroking my cheek. "You're fearless."

"I was very scared," I whisper, my breath trembling. I want to tell her that I'm not bold, not so much myself.

'I shaved it for you,' I think with a shock, realizing how badly I want to tell her. I feel my color rising with the realization.

Her gaze is so intense, so beautiful. I'm afraid of what's happening and try to deflect. "But I would have liked to see you run down and fuck one of the busboys," I tease.

"You think I was joking?!" she says, opening her eyes wide, her expression daring me to contradict her.

"People are trying to eat," I remind her with a grin.

"After all!" she laughs.

We giggle and squirm as Claire squeezes in even closer to me, pushing one hand under my neck and her other hand across my belly for an embrace, and I oblige. We go still, the laughter becomes shallow breaths, the squirming becomes tiny shifts as we press closer still.

"Why is it so hard?" she asks in a whisper, barely audible, her cheek pressed against mine, "to find someone who makes me feel beautiful and loved."

"It's not fair," I hush as she pulls back to look at me. I'm on my back turned towards her, she's curled against me, one arm under my neck, the other stroking my belly, her knee on my thigh. Her dark nipples are swollen and shining, making her breasts look almost sharp. I marvel at her beauty, feeling bathed in her warm regard. I feel my muscles relaxing, my breath slowing, but I'm not falling asleep. My heart is racing, beating hard. My skin feels hot.