Like A Daydream I Am Guilty
CJ had bad eighties hair when they met. It wasn't puffy or anything, but it was awkward and dark and so was CJ, back then, before she became glamour and whatever the hell else that shines and sparkles and is never ill-adored. Andi likes the old CJ, the young CJ who spilled her grasshopper all over Toby's clean, white dress shirt and apologized a million times too many. The CJ who didn't dare, back then, to screw her husband right behind her back.
It's over now -- she closes her eyes -- she lets go. She repeats it in her mind, to let go, because she's not who people think she is as much as she tries to pretend, and she can let go. Maybe. Possibly.
CJ had a big eighties jacket when they met. It was yellow and black and misunderstood in every way. She was seeking attention, maybe, and she idolized Andi because Andi had the better job and the better man, and Andi had that long red hair and she was still perceived as feminine by him, desirable. He made CJ see it and CJ felt out of place, but then again.
Then again, why shouldn't she?
When she was still. When she couldn't move underneath him because he was thinking CJ and tasting her, when she wasn't who she is today so she didn't know better than to ask him about it. When she asked him about it and he spat out a fuck, and a why do we have to do this now, and the reason they couldn't procreate is always the same, always him and always CJ. So why the hell shouldn't she feel out of place?
He's marrying his fucking assistant today, who knew, and she put Andi and CJ in the same table. Andi wants to tell her that she remembers the stupid hair and the stupid jacket, but CJ's eyes are constantly avoiding, constantly on Toby and the fucking assistant, whatever her name is. Andi examines the redness of CJ's eyes and the added line of eyeliner to make sure nobody notices she's been acting betrayed and hurt all night long in the privacy of her bedroom.
Andi lights a cigarette and CJ flinches, her eyebrows stretched in surprise across her face, and Andi is that person she admires again for a moment there, for all the opposite reasons. Andi pretends not to notice, and instead watches her children smear gourmet food on each other's faces at the children's table. She inhales, exhales a smoky cloud, puts out a cigarette and heads to the bathroom.
CJ had this expression on her face when they met, the same one she has now. Andi doesn't ask why she followed her to the bathroom because she doesn't mind that it's noon and inappropriate, and the bathroom and CJ. When Andi's fingers go through CJ's hair, they ruin the blow dry CJ always tries not to damage and give it that eighties look again. Andi likes that.