Tart Read Free Page A

rebound, delirious with heat, on the rag, homeless, with all possessions currently blowing amid Tuesday traffic in form of ash. Do not, I repeat, do not indulge in a messy entanglement with Gorgeous Motorcycle Boy). But still, I don’t want to make things worse with one more faux pas.
    There’s a gentle sniffling coming from inside the bathroom stall. I freeze. It never occurred to me that I wasn’t alone in here. A quick check under the door reveals a pair of pink flip-flops. A couple seconds pass, and then the toilet flushes and out comes Beach Barbie.
    She’s wearing a tiny tank over a bikini top and miniature turquoise shorts, cut high enough to reveal her mile-long legs. Her eyes are bloodshot and her nose is pink from too much blowing, but neither this nor the seedy setting is enough to detract from her overwhelming California glow.
    I try not to gawk as she squeezes past me to the sink, washes her hands and then her face, pats both dry with a paper towel.
    â€œHi,” I say.
    She looks at me in the mirror and smiles, revealing the expected set of gleaming white teeth, then she bursts into sobs.
    â€œOh, no,” I say. “What is it?”
    â€œI—” She can barely get the words out. “I hate—”
    â€œYes? You hate…?”
    â€œGuys,” she finally spits out.
    By now, there’s snot dripping from one of her pretty little nostrils, so I duck into the stall she just left and get her a wad of toilet paper. “There you go,” I say, patting her shoulder gently. “It’s all going to be okay.”
    She blows her nose loudly several times, then composes herself quite rapidly, considering the extremity of the breakdown. “Oh, my God,” she says, checking her reflection for mascara damage. “I’m so embarrassed.”
    â€œDon’t be. If you have a quarter or a tampon, I’m never telling anyone. Deal?”
    She’s got a pink beach bag slung over her shoulder, and now she paws through it, pulling out a half-eaten Snickers bar, a bottle of aspirin, three lipsticks and a cell phone before finally producing the coveted Tampax. She hands it to me. Its paper wrapper is smooth and delicate from so much toting around.
    â€œOh, God, thank you,” I sigh. “You’re an angel of mercy.”
    She hiccups daintily and smoothes her already perfect hair with one hand. “Our little secret, right?”
    â€œLips are sealed,” I say, disappearing into the stall.
    When I emerge, my tragic little Beach Barbie is gone. As is usually the case, the blood damage was much less extensive than I’d feared—hardly more than a spot—so I’m feeling refreshed and eager to return to my drink. Clay is still stroking Medea. He appears to be engrossed in a conversation with her, as well. Her puffiness has completely disappeared and she is stretched out happily in his lap, soaking up the affection. She’s always had excellent taste.
    â€œâ€¦terrible motorcycle ride,” he’s telling her, as I sit down. “But you’re okay. Bet you always land on your feet.”
    â€œThanks,” I say.
    He looks up. “For what?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know…calming her down. Bringing us here. Saving us from a fiery death.”
    â€œI hardly saved you.” He wraps a hand around his beer and rotates it slowly before taking a swig. “You two don’t look like the kind of girls who need saving.”
    â€œAnyway,” I say, eager to change the subject, “what’s your story? What do you do?”
    â€œFor a living?”
    â€œOkay, sure. What do you do for a living?”
    He shrugs. “I’ve got a record store.”
    â€œHere in town?” I ask.
    He nods.
    â€œThat’s cool. So you’re into music. You play anything?”
    â€œNot really. I DJ on the side, but it’s slow going. The gigs I make money at are mostly weddings, which generally