Breadcrumb #544
NICHOLE KATSIKAS
Part I: The Final Year
You spend your days alone and nights with strangers. “Snooze” your alarm all morning because your to-do list is trivial: clean bathtub, wash sheets, break in new stilettos. Rouse yourself to get coffee from the organic bodega around the corner. Find yourself buying fair-trade shampoo, all-natural toothpaste and recycled paper towels because you are too lazy to go to Duane Reade and the expensive stuff is easier. Swipe your debit card without looking at the register's total. Remember the $1,200 you made the night before, bundled in precise stacks and buried at the bottom of your duffle bag. Stifle back tears when your personal trainer asks about work. You do not understand why her question invokes tears. Run an extra mile on the treadmill because you have no place to be and drink too much champagne last night. Ask yourself how long you’ve been this unhappy. Consider the question but do not listen for the answer. Instead, turn up the volume in your headphones and focus on your breathing. Get drunk on your night off from work. Give your friends lap dances at the bar because they think that it’s funny. Text your ex-boyfriend. Fuck your ex-boyfriend. Find the scarf you left at his apartment while you were dating. He has it neatly folded on his bookshelf, a sight that makes you feel romantic. Foolishly begin to cry and ask him why he left you. He considers the question but does not give you an answer. Anticipate his text the next day but receive only messages from your clients. “When are you working next, Athena? I want to see you” Take the L train to Union Square. Watch wistfully as other 20-somethings go on to get happy hour drinks with their friends. Instead, you transfer to the Q train and ride express to Times Square. Spend your happy hour in a dark den; your night a blur of sequins, champagne and awful dub-step remixes. Roar with fake laughter at jokes you don’t find funny from men old enough to be your grandfather. Listen for your stripper name to be called to the stage or pay a $50 fine. At the stroke of 4 am, race to the locker room. Kick off your clear plastic stilettos for white converse sneakers. Throw your modest sundress over your diamond-encrusted g-string. Watch Times Square disappear from the back seat of your cab home to Brooklyn. Measure the night’s success by the pretty purple bruises that kiss your knees in the morning. Ask yourself if quitting would make you happy. Consider the question but do not listen for the answer.
“Foolishly begin to cry and ask him why he left you.”
Part II: The After Months
Now you wear your chipped nail polish like a badge of honor. The manicurist at the salon forgets your name and that's okay. You post an ad on craigslist to sell your old gowns. Hundreds of dollars in sequins and spandex reduced to a few crisp twenties. Save the money for grocery shopping. Break up with your personal trainer because you can't afford her and that’s okay. Occasionally go on a second date but usually not. Feed your loneliness pints of Ben and Jerry's Half Baked frozen yogurt in predetermined blackouts. Scrub the chocolate stains from your white comforter the next morning. Ask yourself if you are still drunk. Consider the question but do not listen for the answer. Nostalgia sets in around 3 pm on a Wednesday afternoon at the photo studio where you now work. Consider moonlighting at your old club in Queens, the one that let you work freely without a schedule. Take a coffee break instead. Feel the sun burn your thighs. Now you take the L train to East Village for happy hour drinks with other 20-something year old women. Give your friends lap dances at the bar because they still think that it’s funny. Text your ex-boyfriend. Fuck your ex-boyfriend. Feel relief when you wake the next morning and find that he has gone, leaving only pretty purple bruises as evidence. Ask yourself if perhaps stripping was not the reason he broke up with you, after all. Consider the question but do not listen for the answer.