Below is a short story that I wrote a while ago. It is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real events or people is entirely coincidental. It’s very different from any of the writing I’ve shared in this publication. Aside from being fictional, it’s very graphic and there’s a lot of drug use. I have spent a lot of time in my head with Diana, the anti-heroine who serves as narrator and protagonist in this piece. I love her very much, though she’s deeply flawed. I am, honestly, very nervous to publish this as I do not know how it will be received.
Finally, a content warning: eating disorders, abusive relationships, sexual assault, drug use and addiction, childhood neglect, alcoholism.
I love you! Please let me know if. you enjoyed this story.
Hannah Stella
Banter
I’ve done enough blow to think I seem sober. We were at a table with a group of Russian guys in black tee shirts, or maybe they were Israeli? It doesn’t matter. I didn’t pay and I did take a few shots (and now that I’m thinking about it, they were vodka shots, so those guys must have been Russian because all the Israeli guys at nightclubs drink tequila) but I don’t know how many shots and I think I’ve hit the right balance of uppers and downers because I feel sober. But I’m not sober and I don’t think I am going to be able to orgasm tonight because I’m too drunk and too high.
Ian texted me, “Are you still out?” and I said,
“It’s only 11:30.” And he said,
“Di, it’s Wednesday.” Which I think is stupid, because I don’t work on Thursdays so Wednesday is Saturday. When I didn’t respond, Ian said he’s sending an Uber to Banter to pick me up. I said, “What if I’m not even at Banter,” and then I walked outside, smoked half a cigarette and waited for the black Camry.
*
I’m in the car on the way up Sixth Avenue and the driver is wearing too much cologne so I roll down my window. I check my make-up in my phone camera and use some spit to get most of the black shit off my eyelids. I gloss my lips and spritz some perfume. Ian’s doorman lets me up without calling Ian and I knock on his door and then try the knob. It’s unlocked. He’s on the couch drinking a Manhattan out of a coup glass and it has this dumb sterling silver toothpick sitting in it stabbed with three of those expensive cocktail cherries—the dark brown ones that actually taste good. You know the ones I mean. But anyway, I think that’s kind of an effeminate thing to do, to make yourself a fucking whisky drink with sweet vermouth and put it in a girl cup and sit on your Eames couch in your high-rise apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and sip it while you wait for some chick a decade your junior to come over and fuck you. I think that’s a pretty girly thing to do, I think I can do better than Ian. I bet he even fucking iced the glass while he was shaking the cocktail, I bet he keeps a glass in the freezer.
“Do you want me to make you one?” Maybe I was staring at the drink. I just shake my head and half grin at him in a way I hope is sexy.
Ian is trying to take care of me and I appreciate it, usually. I appreciate it sometimes. I bend down and unstrap my shoes and leave them by the door. I don’t let people wear shoes in my apartment either, but the cocaine must have made me angrier than usual because tonight Ian’s no shoes rule makes me think he’s too precious. It’s not like the cleaning lady doesn’t clean these dumb oak floors a couple times a week. It’s not like I actually walk in these goddamn strappy, blistering heels—they’re not covered in pee and grime like most shoes in this city. I have to snap out of this mood, I don’t even know why I am so angry. It’s the coke, of course, but coke doesn’t usually make me angry. I’m the chatty type.
Ian hasn’t done anything wrong. Ian hasn’t done anything wrong, tonight. I’m here, I’m safe. Ian is safe. I tell him I need to use the bathroom quickly but instead of peeing I look in the mirror but not at my reflection. I look myself in the eye, I look past the blue parts and stare right at the black and I take four deep breaths and tell myself I’m in a good, accommodating mood. It works.
I use Ian’s mouthwash and then I walk back out and I curl up against him on the couch. He smells like ammonia and Dior Sauvage and I kiss his neck a little bit and I whisper in his ear, “Thank you for the Uber, thank you for always taking care of me.” I purr it. And then I nibble his earlobe a bit.
“Hi baby,” he says and I hate it when he calls me that. I hate it because I like to call him daddy during sex and baby makes me feel like we’re doing some weird roleplay kink thing, like those creeps who meet on fetish apps. But I don’t know how to tell him to stop calling me baby. It’s a normal thing to call your girlfriend and the last thing I want to have with Ian is a conversation.
***