When I get home Fallon is gone but she’s left her bedroom light on and it shines through the door, a yellow trapezoid on the wooden floor of the kitchen. I take the Polaroid out of of my jacket pocket and stand in the light and squint at it. I put the photo down on the table, in the dark part of the room, and drop my jacket to the floor. I pull my boots off one at a time and leave those on the floor too as I walk to the bathroom.
I scrub at my eyeliner with a black-stained washcloth. I can’t stop thinking of her, of this mystery ghost girl in her Polaroid frame on my kitchen table.
I take the photo into the bedroom with me and hold it carefully by the corners. She isn’t what I expected but I don’t know what I thought she would be like.
She is all angles against the wall, elbows and knees, uncomfortable, coltish. Not a lot of makeup. Looks tired but young. Unsmiling, wide eyed, maybe a little nervous.
I have a hard time imagining this girl with Sasha in all his misplaced tries-too-hard Bowie glamour, his fingerless gloves and his leather. Everything about Sasha is constructed to scream sex, dirty sex, pills and punk rock and late nights. Nothing about April looks sexy. She’s pretty enough, wide set eyes, full lips. But I can’t imagine fucking this girl. This girl was a ghost even when she lived, a brown and grey mouse. What did Sasha see in her? What happened to her?
As I peel off my layers of black and glitter - sequin skirt, filmy grey sweater - I try to imagine her, her soft teeshirt and rough jeans. I try to imagine Sasha’s hands on her skin. She smells a little bit like dirty hair and something powdery and green: I smell like vanilla and whiskey and leather and cigarettes. I am loud and loose and brash and dark, she is quiet and closed and wide eyed and pale. Why me after her?
I squint at the photo. April, who are you?
I think again of Sasha’s hands on my thighs, his rings cold against my skin. I see my hips and thighs shrink into hers and I hear her little whimper, her small breath through her lips. Sasha’s shoulders are broad and silhouetted above me. I sit on the bed in my shredded tights and my black cotton bra and I let my hand slip between my legs.
I wake up there, like that, a few hours later as the dawn lightens the room, the Polaroid still beside me, my heart pounding in my chest. I dreamed I woke, in this bed, in this room, to find pennies on my eyes. One old, one new.