Nicky gives me a look as I struggle to put on my new red stiletto pump in the front seat; they're gorgeous and make me feel like a sex goddess but I opted to wear my right sandal instead to avoid killing people by not breaking in time for traffic.
The men smoking outside the store don't seem the least bit perturbed that we rolled up looking like we just got out of our book club (Seriously: Nicky's wearing a friggin cardigan). They ask us what we're there for, likely to assess whether we're serious or just drunk and bored.
To her credit, Susie doesn't squirm at the demonic tribal designs laid out on the wall or the framed photos of Asian women wearing only the ink engraved on their bodies. She rolls her eyes in that 'Oh you little rascals' kind of way before chirping, "I'm glad you guys let me be a part of this."
Considering that we just told her our plan to have needles dug into our bodies (not the same ones because that would make us crackheads) for shits and giggles over Italian food and chocolate souffles 1.5 hours ago, I think she's taking this well. Nicky and I end up in different booths but, like our birthdays, I go first. I lay down on the seat and what follows is a lot like awfully awkward sex: there's a little pain, a lot of moving and poking and a general sense of "wtf is going on down there?"
When it's over, I check my souvenir in the mirror and just know that this will be a scar I'll cherish... It also helps that the burly man with the huge plugs in his ears gives me a Blowpop for being such a brave little girl. It's green apple so I snatch Susie's cherry-flavored instead.
I watch my wife climb into her chair amidst a hundred faces of Buddha (and a few of Vishnu), unwrapping my lolli and wondering aloud if I can hit the center before she's done.
I ask without really expecting an answer if this is where she thought we'd be when we first met in agifted creative class over a decade ago. She smirks even though she's in no position to be smug (literallly) and quips, "You know, I think I did."
The needle dips then rises, and I push the taste of cherry around my mouth thinking that this is both the oddest and just-right kind of night I've been needing: good friends and bitchy gossip topped with a splatter of painful creative expression. Bet my Friday night was cooler than yours.
Written 5.1.11
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