It's Always Snowy in Manehattan

“Не желаю я с Вами спорить. В спорах рождается Истина, будь она проклята.”

Писатель, из “Сталкера” Андрея Тарковского *

* ”I don’t want to argue with you. Arguments give birth to the Truth, may it be damned.”The Writer, from “Stalker” by Andrew Tarkovsky

“It’s not about commitment,” Vinyl spoke, cradling her glass under the blinking light of the above-the-counter lamps. She rotated on the stool sideways, so as to face her interlocutor more directly. “It’s not like I cannot have a relationship. It’s not like I cannot hold one.” She took a very small sip of the whisky that she hated, but could do with after three glasses or so. “Thing is, there’s the trust, okay?” She nodded, while her drinking companion remained silent, his head bobbing slightly to the hectic music of the establishment, a trippy electronica which Vinyl could rate - and she could, for she prided on being somewhat expert in EDM - his fingers playing on top of his ice cold gin-tonic. “A relationship is something, I dunno?, fiduciary. It’s something that goes I-trust-you and you-trust-me. And when I’ve had, what?, a dozen of those, and all of it goes I-don’t-trust-you, I-don’t-believe-you, fuck-you, go-away, sleep-on-the-couch, what should I do? Run for another one?” She chuckled, finishing off the glass, and rotated back to face the bartender. “Nope, not for me. Let me be alone; alone and content, with friends who trust me. Right, Nini?”

The man next to her nodded a few times before he finally spoke. “Sis, you are going on about relationships. Again.” Relaxed, he stretched his broad, muscular body. “This shirt is killing me. So is your usual talk. Find someone already or I’ll be forced to browse my connections to find you someone myself.”

“Your connections,” Vinyl said with a laugh, “only include hot girls and old men.”

“Oh, I know you’re totally not into girls,” the man replied the same way, “but I can find an old man or two for you. Now stop lamenting over spilled milk. You get laid twice as much as I do, and that just makes me sad and envious.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just, like, your opinion, man,” Vinyl replied, lazily motioning for another drink.

“Stop quoting movies,” the man said. “It’s not even Thursday.” He kept on sipping on his gin-tonic, as if in a surprised mood. “You know what,” he said after a comfortable pause. “This gin is making me drunk.” He looked at the glass attentively. “Yep,” he confirmed. “My head is getting light. I’m drunk.” With that, he smiled victoriously.

“I guess we’ve achieved what we’ve come for,” Vinyl replied, looking at the whisky she’d ordered. “Your head is light, and I’m rambling about girls again. We can safely go home now.” She decided not to partake in the disgusting drink.

“Yeah, with the exception that I drove us here,” the man said pointedly. “For some reason,” he mumbled. The music in the club was obviously making him both giddy and tired, and he yawned amidst the dancing crowd. They were far enough not to touch him at the counter with their sweaty bodies, and he didn’t mind observing the girls on the dancefloor; not that his sister minded doing the same.

“We can take the underground,” Vinyl suggested to no avail.

“I am afraid of the-” the man began, but she interrupted him:

“I know, Neon, I know.” She sighed, inserting her hand in her handbag and searching there. “I hate those. These are for frilly puff-puff girls, not manly lesbians.” She tried with another hand. “Where is my bloody phone? Nini, did you take my phone?” she addressed her brother, who merely shrugged.

“If I had your phone, I’d be calling for a taxi now,” Neon replied, finishing the gin-tonic. “Hey,” he said suddenly, “do you even know what ‘frilly’ means?”

“Yeah, because you totally don’t have a phone with a free pass to make worldwide calls,” Vinyl replied in irritation, disregarding the second part. “Why don’t you call for a taxi?”

“Because,” Neon said calmly, cradling the empty glass, the little drops of the liquid sliding down its glassy walls, “I have a corporate phone. Because every single call I make is paid for by the label. And if I call for a taxi at two in the morning in the city centre, they’re totally gonna ask what the hell just happened. And how would I tell them that I just used the corporate phone to call for a taxi in the middle of the night because I took my sister to listen to some music and we got beastly drunk?”

Vinyl rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it like this…”

“I swear I’ll get a phone of my own,” Neon added. “Someday. Now, just ask someone for their phone. We’re not the only ones in the bloody bar.”

“It’s a bulletproof plan, Neon,” Vinyl said sternly. “Fucking ingenious, if I understand it correctly. It’s a Swiss fu-”

“No, you don’t!” Neon physically pressed his palm against Vinyl’s mouth, effectively shutting her up. “A, it’s not Thursday, B, you don’t get to quote that movie. It’s my favourite.”

“Fuffm maff,” Vinyl finished, just before the hand withdrew. She smacked her lips a few times and sighed, eyeing the waiting whisky. “I guess I’ll need this if I have to-” She downed the whisky in one gulp, feeling the pleasant burn slide down her throat and materialise in her stomach soon thereafter. “So…” She turned left on the stool, only to see a slim, slightly pale young woman in a suit, who was pointedly looking at her glass of what seemed to be whisky. “Oh! Hey. Uh. You.”

The woman turned her head slightly, her long charcoal hair following prompt behind, eyeing Vinyl curiously, as if in disbelief that this wild-haired, blue-haired chick in a blindingly white suit would address her. “Huh?”

“You, I mean. Damn.” Vinyl thought for a moment. “I’m Vinyl Scratch.” She extended her hand with a smile.

The woman looked at the head attentively, but made no move to shake it. “I am Octavia Philarmonica. Now that we’ve dispensed with the pleasantries, can I get down to drinking my whisky?” She flashed her eyes at the offender, and Vinyl couldn’t help but gulp at the fear-inducing gaze of the woman next to her.

“I-I…” Vinyl stammered. “Could I have your phone, please?” she said goofily, blushing a little and blaming herself at once for submitting to such force.

“A,” Octavia said, “I barely know you. B, why would I give you my number? Your drunken tirade clearly paints you as a desperate lesbian, which is definitely not my type of person even to talk to, not to mention actually call.” Octavia drank her whisky with evident disgust. “And C, please don’t call me by my first name. I don’t know you that well. And thank the gods for that.”

“I didn’t mean your number,” Vinyl tried, “I meant your phone… I need a phone to call-” A realisation struck her, which made her insides ignite - though, maybe, it was mostly the whisky. “Wait, who did you call desperate?!”

“You,” Octavia replied calmly, her calm damaging Vinyl’s. “At least, that’s the impression you’ve given due to your laments.”

“What do you have against lesbians?” Vinyl asked crossly, showing her character as well. She pressed her right hand into a fist just to fix the approaching rage.

“Everything,” Octavia replied in a whisper. “I went to a girls-only school, you know. You wouldn’t believe how many filthy lesbians tried to claim me.” Indignantly and primly, she tossed her hair. “They didn’t.”

“Well, you know what?!” Vinyl raised her voice. “If I wanted to, I could have your sexy ass in my bed ten minutes ago!” She grinned victoriously.

Octavia’s eye twitched, and in a split-second, with a “How dare you!”, she slapped Vinyl across the cheek and rose, breathing heavily. She opened her mouth to say something else, but just huffed and walked away from the bar counter in swift, abruptly-paced steps.

The whole counter was silent for a few moments, but the music kept blaring, and the people kept dancing, so the patrons safely returned to their drinking and talking routine.

“And that,” Neon said after a short pause, “is why you don’t have a relationship.”

“Shut the fuck up, Neon,” Vinyl replied grumpily.

Neon did have the good sense not to correct her.

***

All the way home in the taxi, shifting uneasily in the backseat, and when her brother bid her goodbye at the doorstep, and in the long hot bath that she took to get into a sleepy mode of existence, and after that, in bed, thanking the gods that it was not summer when the sun rose at half to four, enjoying the scary darkness and solitude, for we are always alone at night, unless we share a bed, which she did not - she thought about the encounter, she thought about how she was slapped, she thought about that damn woman.

On one hand, she was extremely angry at Octavia Philarmonica: how dare she slap her like that and talk like that and just be so fucking posh and prim all the time! On the other hand, she could sense some unwanted envy within: she was easy-going, and often mistaken for light-hearted, and she could never be that posh and prim - not that she wanted to! On the third, virtual and mutated hand, she felt that this was, as many times before, a challenge. How many women - presumably straight women - had come through her, walked into her trap, inevitably succumbed her, lost themselves in her embrace, cried her name, and were conquered.

Vinyl the Conqueror smiled evilly and stood up for a glass of water. Yes, this one was just a challenge. She won’t search for her, sure; she will never fall so low. But if she were to meet this Octavia Philarmonica again, she would definitely sweep her off her feet, both metaphorically and literally, have her, own her for a night, show her the wonders of the world, and then dump her, leave her like the stupid bitch deserves!

The water didn’t cool Vinyl’s temper, so she opened the small kitchen window, feeling the freeze of winter rush into her flat, seize her like she had seized so many. Vinyl the proprietress. Vinyl the conqueress. Yes, she would do just that. That’s what she always does, isn’t that? That is, a one-night stand, whether a compliment or a punishment, that’s all that woman deserves. It’s even more than she deserves.

But she’s pretty, isn’t she? No, let’s be honest here. Vinyl closed the window, lest she catch a cold. She has the… all the necessary... elements. Uniting them, she is a decent specimen. Speciwoman, that is. I wonder…

Vinyl walked the familiar walk back to bed and closed her eyes, imagining in vivid detail how she would seize the prize and seduce her with her skilful tongue, and then show her just what else that skilful tongue of hers can do… She would forget all about the all-girls school and see only her before her, and then she’ll just say, “Sorry, babe, but you’re not my type. It was a one-night stand.” Yes! And she would break her heart, and feast on it, yes, she would make her lose orientation, and then leave, leave her disoriented… Like so many before her.

And with pleasure like that, Vinyl thought, who the hell needs a relationship?