Bastard Freedom: Chapter 6
Marie gingerly stepped onto the cobblestoned floor, afraid her high heels will get stuck in the crevices. She wore a three-piece suit, as was her wont, and looked over to where Barry was sitting, orders for the table already all around.
"Hi. Nice to see you again," Barry said, grinning like the Cheshire cat. "Joseph won't shut up about you since we last interviewed you, and how he's now planning to red-pill you from Derrida to Kafka, whatever that means."
She laughed in delight, making both men wonder if she was laughing at the impromptu phrase-smithing or the content therof. She turned a few heads as she walked past, no doubt because she looked like something out of a magazine called Paradox: the high heels with the red sole, but then the three-piece suit rendering her almost shapeless. The women, if at all possible, stared more intently: Is this what passes for sexy nowadays? Where are the standards of the trifecta of Thigh, Cleavage, and Ass Crack?
That last bit she added to herself, thinking exactly their thoughts, though wrapping more eloquent words around them. She knows how she looks like: she strove for it. The feminine is to be worn begrudgingly, always, always. She was secretly a mysoginist: her usual equanimity only broken by the sheer irrationality of her unfortunate sex. Women make her fists itch, in exactly the same way insecure men make her head ache. Oh, the misfortune of a world that inherited these genders. She found herself agreeing to what Joseph said, in bed, two days ago: Objectification of the other sex is the highest tribute one can pay.
"Shut up," Joseph said, barging into her thoughts. For a while she thought the imperative was directed at her. "I'll sing These Days," he says, turning to Barry. "What about you?"
"Oh, maybe not tonight. Have to save the throat for far more sublime pleasures," Barry said, eyeing yet another Swedish blonde with legs running up to her armpits.
"Marie, you are going to sing. For me. Tonight," Joseph declared, pulling her chair so she could sit down. "I demand it. I leave you to the song, of course, but then I might as well have damned you twice."
"Yes, sir," she said, panicking at the thought of singing again in front of a crowd. Gods, it's been ages since she sang, and ages more since she held a guitar. What is this fuckery?, she thought. It's yet another way of having sex with him, only equalled by the times when they would write together in silence, on opposite ends of a coffee table.
Joseph went on stage, sauntering, knowing full well that women were eyeing his broad shoulders and the promise of sculpted lats underneath his t-shirt. He resisted the urge to look at Marie, to both reassure her that he was indeed looking at her, and reassure himself that he was still desirable to half of the world. As promised, he sang These Days excellently, keeping true to its original key of E, his throat like train tracks oiled with high-octane fuel. This, of course, to the more than enthusiastic cat-calls of the crowd: even the women were whistling.
Marie's face was stoic throughout the song, and if possible, it was more stoic now. Jealousy bored her, but then, knowing that Joseph knows this about her, she didn't know what to do with her face. She settled for neutral, and knew this was a mistake: Joseph never finds centrists attractive. "If you're going to be wrong, baby," he said once, "know that you're beautiful."
It was Marie's turn, as Barry got up to excuse himself and plastered himself at the bar, daring as close as he can get to the Swedish woman, although not without saying, "Kill them out there, Marie."
Well. She won't try. Already the anxiety was boring her, although of course, she won't let Joseph know that. She chose Graveyard by the House, although to salvage her throat, she sang it in the key of C#. Always, always, was she more masculine than other. She got a decent response from the crowd, since, as stated, she looked the way that she did, and she was a newcomer.
In contrast, however, the crowd went wild for the next performer: Peter. He hopped onto the stage amidst raves from mostly the men in the bar, and started to sing All the Madmen in his European accent, making the song eerily more real and hence more absurd. Camus would have been proud. Satisfied, as though oracles of the Ancient East, the crowd clapped when he was done. Only then did Peter look at the crowd: and like the sharpest laser on earth zeroed in on Marie's face.
As one genius considers another, the insane see another, with the same eyes as Peter now looked at her face. Only for a brief moment, though, as he still had to navigate the stairs to the stage.
No one noticed. Not even Marie.
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