Lotus
They say if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. New York City is a beautiful bitch dipped in glitter, giving you the finger while walking the runway in her Louboutins. The best, brightest, and beastliest grind here.
When I moved from Atlanta to New York two years ago, it felt like I was embarking on an improbable adventure to an open frontier. I was like that Pioneer Woman on television, but instead of churning my own butter, I made clothes from scratch. My bare necessities were three garbage bags stuffed with all my belongings, my great-grandmother’s sewing machine, and a knock-off Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag. I fancied myself Carrie Bradshaw. The girls eating lunch with me in Bryant Park right now? They’re my Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha, all rolled into two.
“So I’ve got some news,” Billie says, her eyes darting between me and my roommate, Yari. “Paul’s getting a divorce.”
I give something dark in my grilled chicken salad an investigative poke to make sure it doesn’t move, but otherwise don’t respond. Yari, looking inappropriately unimpressed, slurps the last of her Pellegrino through a straw.
“Uh, bitches . . .” Billie says, disappointment darkening her green eyes. The flush climbing her cheeks is embarrassment, anger, or ninety-five degrees of New York summer. Either way, her temperature is rising.
“Oh, sorry. That’s great,” I finally say, not bothering to inject much enthusiasm or faith into my words.
“Doesn’t he get a divorce like every month?” Yari asks, fake curiosity on her face. “Seems like he decides to get one every time you give him a blow job.”
If anything, Wilhelmina Claybourne, Billie to her friends, of which we are the closest, blushes even redder.
“No, he doesn’t,” Billie replies, suddenly preoccupied with the turkey roll on her Styrofoam plate.
“Were you or were you not balls-to-jaws last night?” Yari’s eyes are serious, but her lips twitch at the corners.
“I don’t see what that has to do with any—”
“Balls to jaws. I rest my case.” Yari bangs her water on the table like a gavel. “I think it’s sad that I understand Paul better than you and his wife do.”
“It’s not a real marriage,” Billie protests weakly.
“That must be why he never gets a real divorce.” I stand and gesture for them to do the same. “Come on. We need to get back to work or we’ll be late for the meeting.”
The green umbrella covering our table sheltered us from some of the unrelenting sunshine, but as soon as we toss our trash and start walking the few blocks to our office, it beats on our heads.
“They don’t even sleep together,” Billie tries again.
“Why would he need to sleep with his wife when he’s fucking you?” I ask, keeping my tone nonchalant. I actually get pissed as hell every time we have this revolving door of a conversation.
“Forget I brought it up.” Billie sighs, walking between us with her eyes trained forward.
“I’m sorry, Bill, but you’re having an affair with another woman’s husband,” Yari says, taking the elastic band from her wrist and pulling her long, dark hair into a messy bun. “This is the circle of trust and truth, and we’re your best friends. If we don’t call you on your ratchet ways, who will?”