Read Online Bennington Girls Are Easy by Charlotte Silver - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlotte Silver
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proportions. Coming all the way out to Queens, and it didn’t look like that lamb roast was going to be ready in
forever
, or that once it was there would be enough of it to feed all five of them.
Cassandra sized up Lee again. Gala meanwhile was pulling Orpheus down onto the sofa, right on top of the sumptuous contours of her lap. Giggles. What was it about this chick, this Lee creature, standing there with a mysterious, not clearly earned sense of authority in Orpheus’s kitchen? And this sense of authority didn’t dovetail with her face, which, Cassandra decided, was actually rather faded for someone who still dared to flaunt a black leotard without a bra on underneath. There was something about her that was a wee bit tragic and it wasn’t just that she was going to all of that silly effort with the lamb roast.
CHAPTER 11
B y the time karaoke was over, the girls were thoroughly drunk and decided to go to one of the many Greek restaurants in the neighborhood for taramosalata and warm pita bread, and deep blue bowls of avgolemono soup.
“
So, I got the scoop,” said Gala. “Also, is Orpheus totally going to get back together with me, or what? Mission accomplished! Anyway, get
this.
She’s thirty-three.”
“Who is?”
“Lee.”
“Lee?” repeated Sylvie. “The chick Orpheus is sleeping with?”
“Wait, hold on a second.” This from Cassandra. “Orpheus is sleeping with a thirty-three-year-old?”
“Uh-huh. See. There’s no way he’s not going to get back together with me. And I made myself perfectly—available.”
“Did you ever,” muttered Sylvie, helping herself to more taramosalata. “You know, I’m just crazy about Mediterranean food. You could almost consider living out here, just for that. This stuff is
cheap.
”
“Yeah, but,” said Cassandra. “I mean, I know Orpheus’s apartment is, like, enormous by New York standards, but this neighborhood—it’s ugly and it
smells.
You might want to eat ethnic food sometimes, but you wouldn’t want to have to smell it, day in, day out.”
“Nobody lives in Queens,” said Sylvie definitively, for nobody they knew, aside from the perverse Orpheus, did. Also, Sylvie couldn’t help but be proud of herself for getting in on the Fort Greene wave before everybody else did. This way, she had that uniquely New York satisfaction of being proud to say she had lived in a neighborhood before it got gentrified and reaping the benefits of still living there after it did.
“Sylvie! Cassandra! Let’s dish. What the hell do you think that Orpheus is doing with a thirty-three-year-old?”
“I think the better question is, what is a thirty-three-year-old doing with Orpheus?” Sylvie offered.
“Oh, come on. Orpheus is
hot.
He’s a musician.”
“Bennington boy hot. Not real world hot. That’s different.”
“What makes me sad,” mused Cassandra, “is the idea of a grown woman being reduced to sleeping with a Bennington boy. In the real world. Aren’t there any other men she could meet in all of New York City?”
“Maybe older women are good in the sack,” said Sylvie. “You hear about that sometimes. Sexual peak and all that.”
The girls had heard about it, but that does not mean that they believed it. They shook their heads and agreed to order some pistachio baklava for dessert, the conundrum of Lee and her thirty-three-year-old charms, or lack thereof, forgotten altogether. And as soon as possible they returned to the subject of their own sex lives, so much more fascinating and fulfilling than any older woman’s could possibly be.
“What ever happened with that guy you mentioned the last time I saw you, Sylvie? It sounded like maybe there was a new guy.”
“What guy?”
“Oh, I think you said he was, like, this really up-and-coming fashion photographer or something…”
Sylvie now had a lackluster day job touching up photos of celebrities at a fashion agency in the meatpacking district and was felt by her friends to be
forever
, or that once it was there would be enough of it to feed all five of them.
Cassandra sized up Lee again. Gala meanwhile was pulling Orpheus down onto the sofa, right on top of the sumptuous contours of her lap. Giggles. What was it about this chick, this Lee creature, standing there with a mysterious, not clearly earned sense of authority in Orpheus’s kitchen? And this sense of authority didn’t dovetail with her face, which, Cassandra decided, was actually rather faded for someone who still dared to flaunt a black leotard without a bra on underneath. There was something about her that was a wee bit tragic and it wasn’t just that she was going to all of that silly effort with the lamb roast.
CHAPTER 11
B y the time karaoke was over, the girls were thoroughly drunk and decided to go to one of the many Greek restaurants in the neighborhood for taramosalata and warm pita bread, and deep blue bowls of avgolemono soup.
“
So, I got the scoop,” said Gala. “Also, is Orpheus totally going to get back together with me, or what? Mission accomplished! Anyway, get
this.
She’s thirty-three.”
“Who is?”
“Lee.”
“Lee?” repeated Sylvie. “The chick Orpheus is sleeping with?”
“Wait, hold on a second.” This from Cassandra. “Orpheus is sleeping with a thirty-three-year-old?”
“Uh-huh. See. There’s no way he’s not going to get back together with me. And I made myself perfectly—available.”
“Did you ever,” muttered Sylvie, helping herself to more taramosalata. “You know, I’m just crazy about Mediterranean food. You could almost consider living out here, just for that. This stuff is
cheap.
”
“Yeah, but,” said Cassandra. “I mean, I know Orpheus’s apartment is, like, enormous by New York standards, but this neighborhood—it’s ugly and it
smells.
You might want to eat ethnic food sometimes, but you wouldn’t want to have to smell it, day in, day out.”
“Nobody lives in Queens,” said Sylvie definitively, for nobody they knew, aside from the perverse Orpheus, did. Also, Sylvie couldn’t help but be proud of herself for getting in on the Fort Greene wave before everybody else did. This way, she had that uniquely New York satisfaction of being proud to say she had lived in a neighborhood before it got gentrified and reaping the benefits of still living there after it did.
“Sylvie! Cassandra! Let’s dish. What the hell do you think that Orpheus is doing with a thirty-three-year-old?”
“I think the better question is, what is a thirty-three-year-old doing with Orpheus?” Sylvie offered.
“Oh, come on. Orpheus is
hot.
He’s a musician.”
“Bennington boy hot. Not real world hot. That’s different.”
“What makes me sad,” mused Cassandra, “is the idea of a grown woman being reduced to sleeping with a Bennington boy. In the real world. Aren’t there any other men she could meet in all of New York City?”
“Maybe older women are good in the sack,” said Sylvie. “You hear about that sometimes. Sexual peak and all that.”
The girls had heard about it, but that does not mean that they believed it. They shook their heads and agreed to order some pistachio baklava for dessert, the conundrum of Lee and her thirty-three-year-old charms, or lack thereof, forgotten altogether. And as soon as possible they returned to the subject of their own sex lives, so much more fascinating and fulfilling than any older woman’s could possibly be.
“What ever happened with that guy you mentioned the last time I saw you, Sylvie? It sounded like maybe there was a new guy.”
“What guy?”
“Oh, I think you said he was, like, this really up-and-coming fashion photographer or something…”
Sylvie now had a lackluster day job touching up photos of celebrities at a fashion agency in the meatpacking district and was felt by her friends to be
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