EGO 100

By Victoria Victoria

             “Pink or blue,” I ask Selina, but she doesn’t know either.

            “What about violet?” Is what she replies one night. Ha! Violet. But, we are just talking shit like we do almost every night at 7-Eleven.

            Before this, I was sitting in the middle of my empty living room, staring at the wall where I envisioned the couch I’m ordering would go. I want a Mario Bellini, the oversized cloud-like couch that looks like a blown up, rectangular raspberry. The Camaleonda. But, if I can’t decide on the color, how can I order one? And you can’t decorate any other part of a living room until a color scheme is decided. A Mario Bellini is a statement, it decides thewhole tone. It’s a matter of identity.

            I could have screamed, but instead, I folded my legs into a butterfly position, closed my eyes, took several deep breaths. Then I reached into the vase I had sitting above the fireplace for a handful of weed, tore a page out from the copy of the Architectural Digest open on the floor, rolled a joint. Time to visit 7-Eleven, see what Selina’s up to, maybe go for a night swim in the Pacific.

            The 7-Eleven is down the street from my house, it’s where Selina works. I’ve known her ever since I becamea regular. Selina is twenty-one, fifteen years younger than me, but she makes good company. Yes she will do, is what I thought when I met her. She has dark brown hair, almost black, and tanned skin, a pretty Latino pout, her lips glossed. She wears large hoops sometimes, she wears light blue eyeshadow. Oh, to be young again! I think, but then remind myself, now, now, thirty-six is a fine age. I’m really looking forward to forty.

            “Violet does not compliment my personality, we both know this,” I say. Selina looks down at her nails on the counter, they are long and silver, obviously fake. She lifts a hand to better examine.

            “Ugh,” she says, “my nail chipped.” It’s so hard to keep the youth focused these days.

            I wander through the empty bluish aisles. Grab a Red Bull from the refrigerator section. Wander back to Selina and set it down. I purchase a pack of Marlboro Reds as well.

             “You know what I’d really like to do with you right now, Selina?” I say, feeling renewed generosity while she rings me up. “I’d like to run down the street to the beach and wade in and just swim together. A night swim sounds so nice.”

            But right then I hear the hum of a motorcycle out front, coming in. It’s Jake, I think. Time to play cool.

            Out front of the 7-Eleven I lean and pull out a cigarette, smoke while Jake rides in. Jake is tan and muscularwith dirty brown hair and tattoos. He is a dream. We had sex once. I brought him back to my house. I think he was maybe surprised by how forward I was, but from the moment I met him I felt this yin-yang energy I couldn’t ignore.

            The only thing was, when I brought him back to my place, I had no furniture yet, not even a bed. That was when I first moved, like a few months ago. We fucked on the kitchen counter and after I opened my fridge andoffered him a glass of champagne. It was all I had in my fridge. It was flat, but did the job.

            “Hey,” he says, getting off his bike.

            “Oh,” I say, “Hey,” like I’ve only just seen him but don’t care. He walks past me, goes inside.

            “You know what I’d really like to do with you, Jake,” I say when he comes back out. “What?” He asks.

            “I’d love to go down to the water, go for a night swim. It’s so nice out, right?”

#

             Before, I lived another life entirely. New York City, a house in Manhattan which had been in the family for years that I inherited. I wrote a column for a magazine. I was engaged to a man who worked on Wall Street, Anthony.

            Anthony and I would go on long walks through the Gardens at St. Luke in the Fields, would watch the red glare of the sun against glass towers in the city. We would eat clams in white wine broth and peas with robiola at ViaCarota, lamb and carrot cake at Da Toscano in Greenwich Village.

            It was all perfect you see, but then he cheated on me with Christina, my best friend. He denies it, she denies it.

            These things will drive you mad if you let them, sometimes even if you don’t.

#

            After our swim we ride like wet thieves on Jake’s motorcycle through the city. I’m wearing a white t-shirt and jeans and both stick to my skin. We swam in our clothes, the moon opalescent and rising. There’s something nice about riding fast at night while drenched.

            We ride through Santa Monica to Los Angeles, passing by electric green swimming pools and all the pretty lights from the patios of restaurants lining the streets. Wilshire, West 3rd, La Brea, Fairfax. We pass a storefront all lit up and I spot a Mario Bellini inside it, dark red. Maybe that’s my color? I think. Maybe it’s a sign?

            Later I’ll tell Selina all about this instance. I’ll ask her to perform a tarot reading for me, to read my palms.From behind the counter at the 7-Eleven she’ll pull up my natal chart on her i- Phone. My aura has room for red, she’ll say. Sila 752 red or Semio 700? Sara 777? Este 700? "There are so many reds,” I’ll tell her. Selina will watch me, finger the silver cross around her neck, nod.

            “Maybe an Enya 777?” She’ll suggest, and I’ll want to cry, because that’s not red at all. It’s too pink, pinkishand violet, but brighter. Fuchsia. Who could suggest such a color for me?

            Yet, this is not later, this is now. Jake takes me to a bar on Sunset. I don’t pay attention to the name. We order Dos Equis, tequila. I think, Ego 400? A neon green. What color will let me keep all this?

            “You’re always so lost in thought,” Jake says. Good, my pouting Marissa Cooper vibe is working, I think, and look up into his eyes. I’ve still got it, even at thirty-six.

            “What can I say, Jake, you like your women like that.”

            He leans back, laughs, “Like what?” He asks and takes a sip of his beer.

            I swirl my tequila near my breasts. “Insane,” I say and take it back arching my neck.

            When I come back up we are both laughing, the chemistry. I should take a photo of this moment, post it in an Instagram story for Anthony to see, buy that couch in a color that can convey how happy I am. Something that will say, “Yes, I am very desirable, and no, I never think about you anymore.”

#

            I suspected Anthony was cheating on me with Christina after noticing a pattern of both being busy at the same times. I’d text one and no answer, then the other and same. However, there was a turning point at which I knew it was true.

            One night, Christina and I met at Le Bain for cocktails. We watched the sun set over the water, the city, ordered a pitcher of their ‘Obsession’, crème de cassis and tequila, got drunk. The thing with Christina, she was so, so beautiful. Blonde, which I was not, and breasts like grapefruits, hips. I was more the long legged and thin body type, the type women starve themselves to become but men don’t fantasize about fucking.

            Blonde hair fell over Christina’s eyes and she was so drunk she could not bother herself to pull it away. “Claire,” she giggled, “lets swim in the hot tub.”

            “We didn’t bring swimsuits,” I said. She raised a shoulder in a shrug, smiled. No amount of crepes could sober her. I was drunk too, but you never feel like you are more drunk than the person you are with.

            We stripped to our underwear and sunk into the hot tub and Christina’s breasts bounced perfectly as the night settled in, hot lava into black charcoal, starlight.

            The next morning I woke up to a text from Anthony. “I took care of your friend last night,” it read.

            “Hm?” I asked.

            “After you left Le Bain. I set her up at my place.” “But, you weren’t with us,” I said.

            “I met you there, you don’t remember? You called and I met you both. She’s still asleep.”

            “Where?”

            “Bedroom.”

             I pictured Christina’s gigantic breasts bouncing in that hot tub and vomited because right then, I knew. I imagined those breasts of hers at his place, touching his sheets. A thousand pink grapefruits, a room full of them,Anthony and Christina using serrated spoons to scoop the pulp into one another’s hungry mouths.

            Anthony wanted to tour a property on the Upper West Side that morning. “Sure,” I said, ice queen. That was something he liked to do, tour houses for no good reason. It was a penthouse that went for 45,000,000. Chandeliers in every room, a sunken bath tub, balcony with a view.

            Each room we entered I found new ways to brood, my chin held high.

            After, we went to Cafe Fiorello. It was early summer so we sat on the patio, ate alfresco. I was drinking their spritz with the passion fruit, he was drinking a black tea. It was late lunch, the sun casting everything in a burnt haze, yet the air felt cool like refrigerated pizza. I left my oversized black sunglasses on for the entire duration of the lunch to seem far away and punish him. I imagined us living a life in that penthouse for a brief moment, but then he brought up Christina and I let that image die. I fingered the stem of my glass, twirled it, smiling the bitchiest smile I could muster.

            “Ah, yes, Christina…” I said. Through the dark of my sunglasses Anthony appeared worried and confused and that only made me more suspicious.

            Maybe it was the way the light was hitting, or the spritz, Anthony mentioning Christina, her name on his tongue, all of these things, but I decided to order only the most expensive dishes on the menu. The bottle of Tignanello, veal with burrata, lemon pie. Oysters, please! Another round, another! I wanted Anthony to feel very sad. Very.

            Anthony picked up his napkin to wipe his mouth, took a sip of water. “What’s up with you?” He asked, nervous.

            I laughed. “I think we both know,” I said and slurped another oyster.

            I lifted the entire slice of lemon pie in my hand, took a large bite. Anthony watched while I chewed. Citrus zest and sugar.

            “I hope you enjoyed it,” I said.

             “What?” He asked. He wasn’t eating at all.

            “My best friend. Fucking her. I hope you really enjoyed it. I hope you continue to.” I picked up the bottle of wine to take home with me. It was a $240 bottle. “I hope you two have lots of fun,” I winked and took one last bite of lemon pie.

#

            Elettra 102, we’re getting closer, but then there’s Ego 150, the exact opposite. One black, one white.

            “Maybe you need more of a self-concept,” Selina says one day, looking up from TikTok for one single generous moment of her life.

            “A self-concept?” I ask. I plan to hold that suggestion against her. She doesn’t even notice my annoyance. Like, why can’t she see how rude she’s being?

            “So you know that guy Eric I was telling you about? From the bar the other night?”

            “Uh-huh,” I wave her off, let her talk while I wander the aisles of the 7-Eleven. She goes on with her little concerns. I pretend to listen. I’m wearing knee high boots, stilettos with a sharp point. With each step I hear the click of a heel, the soft tap of a hunter. My fingers slide along the glass doors of the refrigerated drink section. Gatorades in bright blues, milky yellows, fake oranges. Violet energy drinks, shock pink, espresso brown, ugly blue, red dirt. Red Bull and Monster and Starbucks. Blue Moon and Budweiser, those Heineken bottles in that Ego 400. I tear open the slime green colored cardboard. There’s a little chartreuse in there too. Take out a bottle, bang the cap against the door handle and let it fall. Ahhhhh, a nice fresh swig to remember how nice Jake tastes.
            Then, there’s the cheap wine. Barefoot, Cupcake, Apothic. “A light rosé with dark secrets,” a bottle of Apothic reads. Sounds like Christina, a lightweight, rosy, a bad secret. I take the bottle off the shelf, carry it underneath my arm, still swigging from the bottle of Heineken.

            Next comes the hot dog area. I think of grabbing a Weiner and jamming it into the wine bottle where it belongs. Instead, I fix one for myself, extra mustard, which is more of a pale dandelion than true to its name in terms of hue. I take a large bite, eat it down, make another. I’m hungry. I desire fat and carbs.

            “Are you, uh, planning on paying for those?” Selina asks.

            I eat all I can of the second hot dog, set the remains next to the Hershey’s bars.

            “At some point, you’ve gotta learn, Selina, that it’s okay to take. Others will take everything from you unless you learn this. Learn as soon as you can.” I feel her eyes on me.

            I see Jake through the windows, riding in, that stupid motorcycle. He’s so cool right? Such a cool guy. And maybe I’ll play it cool, maybe I won’t. Whichever I choose will be what I want. I am free to make choices. I pour myself a Big Gulp, Mountain Dew Major Melon, a tropical pink, flamingo. I slip off my bra, it’s holding me back, twirl it, let it fall. I let the juices from the Big Gulp run down my chest as I drink. I do have nice tits, do you like them? Rawr. I do a little dance, drop it it hot, hotter—for myself, no one else. Self-concept? Ego 100, blank box, white hot forever, a giant cloud to float in my personal heaven. I am anything I want to be at any given moment. I’m a wild animal, do you judge me for it? I’m unhinged right now, so what? Wolves were friends with humans before humankind turned on them, can you blame them for their bite? The way they howl, the way they move to the moon, let themselves go free. I’m a bad girl only according to the caller, only in your world, if that’s how you choose to understand me.

            I’m a hunter if that’s your definition. So be it. Hah! I let my hips move to the beat of a Britney Spears song playing on the radio. Hit me, yeah, go ahead and hit me, I dare you, one more time.

            Selina’s still looking at me, watching me. I hope she’s taking notes. “What?” I say, and look back.

—

About Author

Victoria Victoria’s work explores themes of desire, loss, and identity. Originally from California, she writes from a little bit of everywhere. You can find her on Instagram.