Brandi, with an I not a y, came up from New Mexico to Colorado looking for something better. The trouble with finding something better is that she doesn’t know what the definition of better means, just the definition of perfection, a feat that still awaits arrival after the sacrifice of all of her former hobbies, family ties, and search for a suitable companion. 27 years of relentless scratching, swimming, and clawing towards an unmarked destination left her with the posture of a late middle aged woman with arthritis. At least working two full time jobs, one as a nanny, the other as an administrative assistant have produced enough cash to afford her a fully furnished studio apartment.
The only lights that stay on are the ones in the room that she currently establishes a presence in. Even with two full time jobs the combined cost of rent, gas, and food make paying for one person’s rent barley affordable. A television set and relatively small sofa occupy the main living room. The seat cousins of the sofa lack the provisions of seating due to the cluttered assortment of text books and papers.
The 12 inch TV serves no other purpose than as a space filler, placed up against the wall across from the sofa. She doesn’t put up with distractions. One of her many irrational fears is that she will be overcome with a fantasy of living the life of a half average actress playing the starring role as a nurse in a network television’s top hospital drama. “Why do I have this stupid thing?” she asks herself on a routine bases. They fight the way a married couple on the verge of mutual throat slitting would. When she embarks on her long study sessions after a full day at work she will routinely look up at the glass screen and see the set’s mocking interpretation of her staring back into her eyes. It feels as if she is being persecuted for not picking up the remote and relieving the pressure of its blue balls resulting from the long periods in between being turned on. Speaking of getting off, the last time she induced her own orgasm was seven weeks ago this Thursday. Her new bed has still yet to be christened with the presence of a partner. Brandi never thought that her sex life would suffer blunt-force trauma once she hit her late twenties. She was hoping that she wouldn’t collide into that wall until she was at least 30.
What was even more sickening to her was her latest string of dating experiences. They have all been the same since she was 24. A guy, usually a college grad and frat alum, would invite her to meet him at the nearest TGIF and show off his newly found wealth by ordering off of the happy hour menu and a round of long islands. If dinner progressed as he planned he would take her outside hand and smoothly guide it under the table and place it on his knee, a sly gesture that politely asks for a simple over the slacks handjob that she always misinterprets as washing the gel out of his hair with the remnants of her drinking glass. When she comes through her apartment door it feels like it’s 2:58 in the morning. She’s just tired.
Created: Mar 01, 2014mwmg67 Document Media