Miss Thing rolled out of bed at ten-thirty, woken by Verdi. Her room-mate's alarm clock. Her throat hurt from spitting up pink bloody foam. From fingernails down the back of her throat. Last night was a full moon. Too much gin was last night. She saw some band play and worked really hard to be nice to her new friends. Miss Thing whistles in the autumn when it gets windy and the breeze blows through the great big hole in her chest, y'know. It makes a sound, and Miss Thing is very sweet to her new friends. This hurts, this is hard, to stay up late. She works, y'know.
In black platform shoes and green sunglasses and her purple leather jacket, Miss Thing walked her chapped-lips to meet Grey. When Grey moves to San Francisco, Miss Thing is going to take over his job as a cat-sitter on weekends. Grey showed her the apartment building and Miss Thing met the cat. Went to brunch, where they drank cocktails made of rum and lemon juice and and maple syrup and they had coffee and Miss Thing only ate toast and butter, for her stomach. And for her head, they both hurt.
Grey walked with Miss Thing down Bedford avenue and they got to Grey's bike, which he can't take with him to San Francisco when he moves in two days. He unlocked it from the streetlight, took the chain and Miss Thing hugged him and they said goodbye. She walked towards the sun and towards the record store to buy psychedelic records.
She has felt sick and broken and stupid for a little over a year. Pretty ugly, nothing really gets her out of it. And after everything, every muscle pulled and every phone number. After the alternating tastes of someone's spit and someone's soap in her mouth, Miss Thing is starting to feel her own little drum beat. She's sick from smoke and drinking and chemicals. From junk-food and insomnia. She smells like cocoa butter and patchouli, which she burns in a little Santeria cauldron in her room. Religious but not optimistic. So now as December begins and she puts the duct tape on her windowsill to keep the whistling cold out of her bedroom, Miss Thing feels the smallest bit of freedom for the first time all year. Walking through empty parking lots, Miss Thing can see or feel the sad part of good. Or not crazy. These things take time and they hurt and they make her free. Or at least make her feel that way, and who could begrudge her that?
Her mouth hurts, she puts on chap stick.