Inspired

Inspired by “1001 Heroes and Mysteries” Podcast “Who Killed Superman?”

Pamela knocked back another drink. She couldn’t look at the lovebirds sitting across from her on the couch, smooching each other, his hand on her lap, rubbing her leg and tucking it under her miniskirt. Other people sat or stood in clumps, ignoring them, and her. She could barely hear what was going on, due to the overall noise of the place.

She felt some tap her left shoulder. She jumped; that was her blind and deaf side.

“Hello,” said the man. He didn’t stare at her in shock, step back, or otherwise register disgust, as normal people did when she turned to look at them. He was holding something golden on the rocks in a tumbler in his hand. His blond hair was short and touseled, and his blue eyes smiled, like his face.

Pamela turned her body so that she could see him more clearly. “Hello,” she said.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Pamela shrugged.

“Not having fun, I see.”

“No,” she said. focusing on his lips so that she could read them because the people to her right were much too loud.

“Why did you come, then?”

Go ahead, she thought, tell him that Lynn pitied you and invited you here. “It’s my friend’s party.”

He held out his hand. “I’m Luke. I came with Gerry Pleasant, you know, the photographer?”

Immediately, she imagined he must be gay. She broke contact with his lips and looked at his hand, not a model’s hand, but dry and cracking. She took it, shook it firmly.

He smiled again. “Want to find someplace a little more quiet?”

“Yes,” she said, and got up slowly. She had to force herself to not wobble because of the drink. She followed him down the hallway in the apartment, past the bathroom and into Lynn’s sewing room, empty of people, and the noise outside had dimmed to a low roar. “How’s this?”

She only nodded. They went in the room, and he offered her the swivel chair in front of the sewing machine. “What’s your name?”

“Pam,” she said, taking the chair. He pressed his hand on the table and shook it to be sure of its sturdiness.

She waited. The Big Question would come in time.

“So,” he said, and sipped his golden drink, “What do you do for a living?”

“I work for a non-profit.”

“What kind?”

She didn’t want to put a damper on the situation. He seemed to be totally avoiding the elephant in the room. He was focusing on the right side of her face.

She sighed. She was going to ruin the mood with this simple statement. “Rape victims of shifters.”

\He looked down and away. That was always expected. She couldn’t blame him.

“So that’s what–”

“Yes.” She might as well nip the entire conversation in the bud. She patted her ruined left cheek. She didn’t lift the patch over the hole that had been her eye, though.

“i’m sorry,” he said. That was expected, too.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, feeding him the usual line.

(That’s all I had time to write today. If you want more of this one, drop me a comment.)