Parties in Congress (25 page)

“She was from the South! They’re very cordial down there.”

“Yeah, she apparently thought
I
was very cordial
down there
. And what about the one on parole?”

“I don’t run people’s fingerprints,” Fran replied indignantly.

“Remember the one who used to call herself ‘Dumplin’?”

Fran laid her head on the table. “Oh, Lord.”

“She spent all night listing various inanimate objects that she wanted me to insert into her ass.”

“All right, you’ve made your point.”

“You try eating beef Wellington with Dumplin’ across the booth, waggling the salt shaker at you suggestively.”

Fran took another sip of coffee. “Look, I’m not talking about setting you up. Just come to the bar with me tonight and be with your own people for a while. Once you do, you’ll see just how foolish you’re being.”

Bijal envisioned a gaggle of drunken college-age lesbians spilling beer on her and copping sloppy feels. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on, what do you have to lose? If I’m wrong, you get to gloat and take some comfort that the cocktail of depression, failure, and celibacy you’re currently swimming in hasn’t impeded your judgment.”

Bijal sighed in futility. “And if I agree to go, I’ll stop getting lectures on ethics from the woman who once dated a cop to get her traffic ticket expunged?”

“For your information, that wasn’t the only reason.”

“Oh?”

“She let me use the cuffs on her.” Fran started to tighten the belt on her robe and suddenly stopped. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me I had this on inside out?”

Bijal shrugged. “I thought maybe it was dirty and you were just trying to get an extra day’s wear out of it.”

*

“C’mon, let’s go outside,” the blonde said directly into Bijal’s ear, gently tugging her from the dance floor.

Bijal nodded briefly, following this new acquaintance to the bar’s outdoor deck where a dozen or so women gathered in various clusters.

“You want to sit?” the sporty girl asked, pointing to a small outdoor table for two that was free.

In fact, getting off her feet and relaxing where the thumping bass wasn’t so loud that she had to scream to be heard seemed like a great idea. She slipped into a seat and pressed her back against the outside of the building. Her companion, whose name she didn’t know, took the other seat and started tapping the bottom of a pack of cigarettes.

Sure, the girl was attractive—in a sort of wiry, all-American, softball-playing way. She was probably in her early to mid-twenties. Possibly even still in college. Bijal struggled to push away the skeevy feeling that notion suddenly evoked.

The shortstop lit a cigarette, then held the pack out. “Want one?”

“No, thanks,” Bijal replied. “I don’t smoke.”

An expression of irritation momentarily crept across the shortstop’s face before she replaced it with what appeared to be a pleasant, possibly insincere, smile. She slipped the Marlboros back into her breast pocket. “I’ve never seen you here. Are you new in town?”

“Nope.”

“You’re
way
too hot for me not to have noticed you,” the shortstop said, contorting her mouth grotesquely in an attempt to exhale her smoke off to the side and not blow it directly into Bijal’s face.

“Uh, thanks,” Bijal said, finding the compliment dubious and rather transparent. “I’ve been working a lot of hours lately. Keeps me from going out.”

The shortstop winced. “Bag
that
shit.”

Bijal was starting to get a decidedly lazy vibe from this girl. “So what do you do?”

“I sing,” the shortstop-cum-vocalist replied, obviously intending to impress her.

“Really? Are you in a band?”

“I’m in between bands right now,” she said, fidgeting with her lighter. “But whatever, you know? They’re all full of fuckin’…dick-cheese…guys anyway.”

Bijal’s fears about this girl’s age had now been confirmed. “I’m not sure what a fucking dick-cheese guy is, but it’s perfectly okay if you don’t explain.” A long silence led Bijal to believe her escort was taking that guidance to heart. “Do you have a day job?”

The singer took a long drag from her Marlboro. “No, me and day jobs don’t really click.”

“Ah.”

“What about you?”

“I’m a political research coordinator.”

“That sounds kinda hot,” the singer said, her eyes narrowing. “I’ll bet you wear a business suit and all kinds of tight shit.” She leered at Bijal suggestively, looking like she thought she was a lot more appealing than she really was.

“Sometimes. Are you interested in politics at all?”

The singer laughed. “Hell, no. That’s shit’s too boring for me. They’re all just a bunch of fat old fucks calling each other…”

“Fuckin’ dick-cheese guys?” Bijal asked, rapidly losing the will to hide her sarcasm.

“Exactly! With all their blah-blah-blah crap. I mean, good for you that you can keep up with all that gobbledygook stuff, but those dudes are all too shady for me.”

“Too shady for you to what?” Bijal asked.

“To fucking hassle with.”

Bijal cleared her throat. “Not that I’m defending politicians by any stretch of the imagination, but if you think they’re so shady, why let them operate unchecked?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, isn’t that kind of like refusing to lock your door because you know your neighbors are thieves?”

The singer shrugged. “They’re all the same, so what difference does it make?” she asked defensively.

“But they’re deciding how you live your life.”

“The hell they are! No one decides how I live my life but
me
.”

Bijal was now officially unimpressed. “Except for things like giving you the right to legally marry, deciding if you can be discriminated against in your job or your housing, setting your tax rate on food, gasoline, cigarettes, and other little things like if the country goes to war or not. Luckily, nothing major, right?”

The singer was apparently now just as unimpressed. “I’m getting another beer. You want one?”

“No, thanks,” Bijal replied, just wanting this girl to go away and take her frustrating apathy with her.

As she watched her nameless, disaffected dance partner head back inside, she stretched, secure in the knowledge that she wouldn’t be back. Idly, Bijal picked up her phone and started scrolling through it.

Had she become one of those serious people she used to make fun of? Was she now utterly unable to make conversation with people who weren’t politically minded or ensconced in a shitty, soul-sucking job? What had happened to her appreciation of both diversity and an interest in what other people were enthusiastic about?

Of course, to know for sure, she’d first need to find a person who possessed actual enthusiasm for something.

A cursory glance at her contacts brought her to Colleen’s number, still in her phone from the night before. Now there was a woman who seemed to have it all—smart as the day is long, conscientious, pragmatic, and painfully sexy, yet she still had a quick wit and a soft spot for the underdog.

Bijal had no doubt that Colleen wouldn’t know what “fuckin’ dick-cheese guys” were either.

Unable to prevent herself from briefly sulking at her current predicament, Bijal glanced at her watch before deciding to send Colleen a late-night text message.

I’m sure you’re asleep now, but thought u should know I’m suffering withdrawal from civic-mindedness & faggity-ass french fries. - Bijal

The joy from the illicit correspondence was fleeting, however, and it vanished, leaving her empty and a little blasé about her evening. How much longer would she be stuck here? It was only midnight, and Fran undoubtedly intended to stay till last call—unless she first met someone she wanted to leave with.

Bijal had let herself get caught up in Fran’s optimistic rhetoric about needing to get out among her own kind and blow off steam. Now that she was here and thoroughly dissatisfied, she wondered if maybe she’d been more accurate in assessing her feelings for Colleen than Fran had given her credit for.

Her phone vibrated in her hand.

I’m still up. Doing prep work for my trip next week. Where are you that has no politics or gay carbohydrates?

Bijal marveled at how silly and giddy she suddenly felt as she typed her reply.

Fran talked me into coming out to a women’s bar w/her, and I’m miserable. Where are you traveling?

She would happily spend the rest of the evening doing this, but that only further exacerbated her dilemma of being completely hung up on her boss’s political opponent, who just happened to also be her ideological opposite. Well, that wasn’t completely true. They did agree on LGBT rights, the courage of one’s convictions, and spicy tuna rolls, to name just a few.

Another text message made the device pulsate.

Congressional delegation to the Middle East. Are there too many hippies there for your liking?

Bijal laughed and sent back a very brief response.

Call me.

It seemed to take forever for the phone to ring, and as Bijal answered it, she stood and moved farther away from the dance music. “Hello?”

“Hey.”

Bijal’s chest fluttered at the single syllable. “Hey.”

“You’re miserable? Are you there under duress?” Colleen asked.

“Not exactly. Fran thinks I’ve been too entrenched in the campaign and it’s starting to affect my judgment.”

“Hmm, and when she says ‘judgment,’ is she somehow referring to me?”

“Per…haps,” Bijal replied tentatively.

“She’ll love the fact that you’re talking to me now.”

Bijal turned and peered through the doorway of the bar to survey Fran on the dance floor. “Well, considering that right now she’s apparently trying to count the change in some girl’s pocket without using her hands, I don’t think she’s too interested in what I’m doing.”

“Damned oversexed Democrats,” Colleen said.

“Don’t I know it? It’s a wonder you guys can ever get completely dressed.”

“Oh, did you assume I had clothes on?”

Bijal’s mouth went dry. “Well, until right now I did, yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. You’ve managed to improve my evening exponentially with only innuendo.”

“That’s just more of my sorcery,” Colleen said, the amusement audible in her voice. “I also do horoscopes.”

“Really? Then tell me, what do you see in my future for the rest of this weekend? Because so far, it’s been thoroughly underwhelming.”

“That depends.”

“On what?” Bijal asked.

“On what you’re doing tomorrow.”

Bijal’s pulse throbbed in her temple. “Uh…so far, I think my goal is to focus on forgetting tonight—and large chunks of the last six weeks or so, while I’m at it. Why?”

“If you’re game, I promised Callisto I’d take her hiking before it gets too cold. You’re more than welcome to join us, depending on how hale and hearty you’re feeling tomorrow.”

“You mean do something outdoors?”

“Well, I find the indoor trails just aren’t as challenging,” Colleen replied dryly.

Bijal allowed herself to consider the notion and was momentarily dazzled by the possibilities. “And I wouldn’t be chained to the Internet or repeatedly responding to inquiries about my boss’s diarrhea?”

“You drive a hard bargain, but I’ll agree to those conditions, yes. I’ll even throw in a picnic lunch to sweeten the deal.”

“Wow, that’s kind of romantic, actually.”

“Let me guess,” Colleen said, sounding suddenly wary. “You hate romance.”

“Actually, I think it sounds lovely.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Bijal replied coyly.

“Do you have comfortable shoes?”

“Of course I do. Exactly how femme do you think I am?”

“The perfect amount,” Colleen said smoothly.

“You’re such a politician.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s an insult.”

Bijal felt herself flush. “Trust me, it’s not. You’re an
amazing
politician.”

“Isn’t that the equivalent of being, say, the best clump in the litter pan?”

“I do envy your skill with a metaphor.”

“Is that an attempt at sweet talk?” Colleen asked.

“No,” Bijal said with a small sigh. “I’m just metaphorically challenged.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

Bijal pondered how to explain her peculiar disorder. “It means whenever I try to make a point, I end up undermining it by, I don’t know, comparing something hot to a head of cabbage, or something dry to a marsupial uterus. It’s just bad, and it usually brings the conversation to a violent, jarring halt.”

“I can see why. What an unusual condition.”

Bijal covered her other ear with her palm in an effort to focus on Colleen. “I think it’s safe to say at this point, in full disclosure, that I’m kind of unusual.”