A Little Bit Bitter, Part 1

That’s an understatement. I’ll be completely honest with you: I wrote that at the top of the page because it has a nice ring to it. The alliteration with the Ls and the Bs, and the two double Ts. I wrote that because it sounds nice. But the truth is Casey wasn’t just a little bit bitter. She was furious.

It was my fault. I’m the one who told her about Mark and Sam. Now that I think about it, it was probably a mistake to tell her. It depends on how you look at it, I guess— even from my point of view. I mean, I got what I wanted out of it initially, and at the time it seemed like a good idea, in a selfish way. Even now that all of that business has died down I can’t say I regret having told her because it helped me get to know Casey, find what kind of person she really is.

Everybody thinks they know Casey really well. Spot her, and immediately you know the type. She’s always been, and always will be, that kind of girl. Some like it, some don’t, but it’s all based on that initial judgment. You’ll see what I mean.

It all started long before that, but for me it began one night at the bar where I was working at the time. That’s when I came in, played my little part in the drama. It was a nice, quiet place, kind of shabby, corner Duluth and Saint-Denis. One of those places that’s been there for decades: once a working class taverne, now a favorite haunt for hipsters from the ghetto and the plateau looking for a gritty place to hang out and pose for faux-vintage pictures.

I’m at my best when I at work. And I say that in all humility, because most of the time I know I’m not much—or, at least, not enough to get the attention of someone like, say, Casey. But manning the bar, my crisp black shirt like a second skin, the rows of bottles behind me and the chrome taps at arm’s length, I’m an altogether different person. Cool, remarkable, I can make you whatever kind of drink you can think of, and others beside, with enough quiet authority to judge you on it, too. I know my stuff, and I know how to use it to my advantage.

I served Casey a Jack Daniel’s, straight, with a glass of ice on the side. Casey, you  should know, has an insatiable taste for hard liquor. It’s one of the things I like about her.

Another thing you should know about Casey is that she’s white trash. I mean that in the best way, but still, white trash is white trash. You hear it immediately—part of that initially judgment I mentioned. Accents don’t lie, and Casey is shameless about hers, which is Southern. Deep Southern. She says y’all, always, and pronounces her As as Es in an open-mouthed drawl. She hitchhiked her way up the US and across the border, ended up in Montreal like she could’ve ended up anywhere else: in the middle of the night, exhausted, confused, thirsty. She found a bed in a hostel, met some people, and eventually moved in with Sam and got a job as a waitress. She owns at least three different cowboy hats, and has a marked preference for short denim, and plaid on both men and women.

That evening, I told her about Mark and Sam pretty much immediately, no preamble or anything. Like, “here’s your drink Mark slept with Sam did you know?” Of course, she didn’t know. That was the point.

I was lucky to know about it myself. I’d seen Mark the day before and he dropped a hint that something had happened between Sam and him. He couldn’t hold it in, you know? Young love, that sort of thing. The truth is Mark had been in love with Sam as far as we could all remember; they used to date, when Casey lived with Sam, but then Sam went away to France for a year and that complicated things, until Mark started dating Casey.

I picked up Mark’s hint real fast and warned him: “If Casey knows she’ll murder someone.” (I was always thinking about Casey.) It turned out to be just the right thing to say to know more because it touched a nerve. “She can do whatever she wants,” he said. “I don’t care. I slept with Sam and I want to get together with her again. It’s the real deal. It’s my life and Casey has nothing to do with it.” I assumed that meant he wouldn’t mind if I told Casey.

For a second, just a second, when I did tell Casey, her face was the ugliest I’d ever seen it. “What?” she said. “What the fuck? Who tol’ ya that?”

For effect, I finished pouring a pint of Boréale Blonde and handed over to a customer before I answered. I made a show of taking the bill I was handed, getting the change at the till, counting the coins carefully before placing them on the counter.

“Mark told me,” I finally said.

“The dick.”

*

Five hours later she was sucking mine.

It was a long evening, heavy with alcohol, as you can imagine. Casey stayed at the bar until closing time, texting and fulminating. I went to chat with her between customers, feeding the fire of her anger, and made sure the glass in front of her was never empty.

What affected Casey so much is that she knew Mark and Sam made a great couple. They were from the same background, they had similar interests; if they got together again it would be for good. I didn’t even need to tell Casey what Mark had told me because she already knew that whatever there was between him and Sam was the real deal. It was nothing like what she’d had with Mark; she wasn’t deluding herself. She knew Mark had only gone out with her for the sex. Well, there was probably more to it, or else they wouldn’t have dated at all, I guess. She was a fun girl. She had a certain reputation. You were bound to impress, to get noticed, with a girl like that sitting in front of you at the restaurant and partying all over your Facebook wall. But mainly, it was obvious Mark had gone out with her mainly for the sex. Casey knew she didn’t have what Sam had. She was too authentic, too much herself. She couldn’t help it.

It was my chance, and I took it. I invited Casey over to my place for a nightcap. She accepted, of course. “I don’t wanna to be alone,” she told me sweetly. She was drunk. We cuddled on the sofa and I did nothing to hide my erection as it rose steadily between her butt cheeks.

“You wanna sleep with me, don’t cha?” She said matter-of-factly.

“Yes.”

She twisted her body around to face me and slipped her tongue, a little pasty from emotion and drink, into my mouth. We made out and she eventually emerged on top, straddling my hips, and let me watch as she undressed. Casey was famous for her tits, and they were something indeed. To finally see them uncovered was a kind of revelation, like at the synagogue when they pull aside the curtain of the ark to reveal the ornate torah inside. She unzipped my jeans and blew me half-heartedly for a while before I carried her to the bedroom—an armful of glowing flesh. We got into the cold sheets and finished there. It wasn’t much fun, to be honest. Even the slobbering fellatio had been better. She was too drunk and tired to move so she kind of lay there and moaned in…well, it was meant to sound like pleasure, but it sounded more like annoyance. As soon as it was over, she stuffed her face into the pillow and fell asleep.