to ignore how sad it made me to hear her like this. She was so good at being what he wanted, at hiding herself behind clichés. And he was so easily pleased, so willing to believe that this was all she was.
My jaw clenched tighter. Was it this easy? Did people really talk like this? In middle school, one of my friends and I would watch porn on Starz after her parents went to bed. We were curious about sex, how it worked, how two seemingly sane, rational people ended up clawing at one another like animals, moaning and grunting. We were interested in the act, sure, but we also wanted to know about what led to it: Were there code words? Did the innuendo just pile up until you knew when to touch each other? Clara and this man reminded me of the scripts of those movies. The woman approaching the auto mechanic in his shop, letting him know she wanted him to do more than service her car. A raised eyebrow, a turned foot, a bitten lip, and in minutes they were all over one another, the woman’s body smeared with black grease.
“Here’s my friend Rob now. Wait till he gets a look at you two; he’ll wish he cashed in his chips half an hour ago.”
The two men could have been brothers: Rob was a little taller than the first man, but with the same large stomach taut against his T-shirt. He wore a black visor and his frequent player’s card was attached to his belt with a neon lanyard. He nodded at us, not asking our names.
He surveyed the empty glasses and water-ringed napkins spread in front of us. “Looks like I’ve got some catching up to do.” I wondered if we weren’t worth a handshake, if he only wanted to touch us the way men felt permitted to touch girls in bars: at the smalls of their backs when pushing through a crowd, a squeeze on the arm for emphasis.
“Why don’t you sit on the other side of Lily? She’s bored by herself,” Clara said. I kicked the leg of her stool.
“Don’t mind if I do.” I wasn’t so sure he was right about catching up. Up close he smelled like rum.
“What’s a girl like you drinking? Let me guess, vodka soda? That’s what women drink to keep their weight down and still have a good time. My guess from the looks of you is that you like to do both.” He ordered one for me, and a mai tai for himself. I was already too far gone: The lights of the slot machines beyond the bar started to blur.
I thought about standing up, walking away, jostling him with my shoulder as I did so he would go toppling to the floor. Making my way out the front door, hailing a cab. Going home, where my mother would be asleep in front of the TV. But then I thought, in my drunken, imprecise way, about Matthew. Telling that story to Clara had dredged up the old desire to impress him, the man to whom stories were the highest form of currency—mostly because he already had everything else. What would it feel like to lean into this moment? To let these men use us. To see what Clara was talking about. Maybe there was only one way to really know.
“Thanks for this,” I said when the fresh drinks came. This time, I angled my chest toward him, like Clara did, and let my fingers brush the top of his arm. Why not? I thought. Maybe recklessness wasn’t reserved only for men.
“Aren’t you friendly,” he said, looking at my lips, then at my chest. I was still fighting the urge to wriggle away. His shirt needed washing and I could smell acrid smoke, the tang of body odor. I could also feel Clara’s eyes on me, even as she giggled. I wanted her to watch.
“So where are you from?” I asked. It was a misstep, I realized as soon as I said it. These men came here to feel big: They didn’t want to think about whatever was waiting for them back home. The sagging gutters, the faded paint, the bills, the soul-deadening jobs.
“Avondale, Pennsylvania.”
“I hope you’re having a fun trip.” I tried to make my voice breathy. “Did you do well at the tables? What’s your favorite game to play?”
“I like poker mostly. Blackjack here and there.”
“I’m no good at any of those. Maybe you could