Scorned Woman

It’s Friday night in the Village, and I am dressed like the cat’s meow, in a strapless Victoria Secret dress, the color of chocolate; complemented with a pair of strappy high heels and golden arm bands.

A group of us have just left the improvisational comedy show. I had just gone up on stage in the last bit. I was asked to describe my day, they then used this information to make a crazy dream skit by scrambling up the events.

I’m just glowing, high on endorphins and a little buzzed off the brandy.Smiling and still laughing the four of us strut up Main Street in search for one of the hot spots in town, Brit’s tending bar tonight. We arrive and cross the packed patio to make our way inside. Quite a few of familiar faces to mingle with,so I hang for a while, and sip from my glass until it empties.

My party members have already gone upstairs to check out the DJ and the only dance floor in town.I slip out the side door and up the front steps to The Veranda. It’s always packed up here on Friday nights, late especially. The drinks are stiff and the music loud, it’s where the bodies touch and the ruckus unfolds. The Veranda and Brits bar are where you’ll find whoever you’re looking for, come last call.

I don’t pay any cover, I just strut on through. I make my way pass the bodies to the bar and indulge in another drink. I step out on the veranda and greet my friends. The music bumping, the chatter of the voices growing louder and louder, the ladies dressed and pressed for a night of provoking boys, the boys dressed and pressed and wanting to be provoked.

A boy approaches me and remembers my name but his I do not. His face familiar, yet unsure of how I recognize him. He tells me his name is Brian and then tries to engage in what I think, he thought was flirtation, but really what just turned out to just be bad game.

He asked me what sign I was, and said he too was a Scorpio and began rambling off about their compatibility. I am a third generation, redheaded Scorpion woman, I know a lot about the zodiac and what he was saying frankly, was not true. So I called him out.

He corrects himself by saying, “Yeah but the sex is good.” Followed by the statement, “You should give me your number. “

In response, I zipped up my purse, turned back to and began conversing with my friends. I guess he didn’t catch my drift. He interrupts, says something that I didn’t hear and then whole-handedly grabs my ass. Impulsively I smack him on the arm and he just walks away.

I turned to my party in shock, “He just grabbed my ass!” I exclaimed. None of the boys in my party would say anything. I turn to a neighboring acquaintance and convey with conviction, “Ross you need to control your boy!”

“He’s not my boy.” He shrugs.

The tunes thump from the speakers, the panes of glass vibrate. The chatter boxes continue, mostly just yelling over each other at this point. The veranda clouded in the stench of cologne and body odor, alcohol and cigarettes. Still in shock, pissed, and not a man around to stand up for me, I seek a resolution.

I look down at the drink in hand, take a deep haul and remove its straw. I hesitate as my heart palpitates at what I was preparing myself to do in the next moment. My eyes scan once more, he is spotted seated at a table directly at the door, and he’s mackin’ on his next victim.

I walk right up and interrupt his conversation by dumping coffee brandy, milk, ice and all into his lap. And bark aggressively, “You need to learn some fucking manners! And don’t you ever do that to me again!”

He was stunned. He just looked at me all wide eyed, his jaw hanging, and his crotch soaked. Like he didn’t know what he had done wrong. With no back up to aid me, I swiftly step out the door, round back down the stairs and seek refuge at Brit’s bar.

I come in invigorated, and petrified, and exhilarated; announcing,“Brit, you’re not going to believe what I just did!!”