"Georgia," Daisy called.
George cringed. Daisy's Southern accent dropped the "r" in George's name to nothingness. Her name now ended with a sigh. "Ah..." So when Daisy used her name, George thought of honeysuckles and cicadas. She'd never seen either the delicate plant nor the terrifying insect, not even on the internet, but Daisy made her imagine them.
Freak.
"Georgia!" Daisy yelled from the kitchen.
"Christ, already." George leaned against the door and squinted at Daisy's form, bent over the sink.
Daisy spun around to face her and leaned back against the counter. "Georgia," she said, folding her arms and smiling coyly. "If your dance card is clear tonight, let's stay in. Get good food, drink wine, listen to old records. Maybe even smoke a cigar or two."
George contemplated about her exciting social calendar. She frowned at Daisy.
Daisy smiled brightly, as if she were suggesting a trip to the carnival, or a Roman orgy, rather than a night inside like almost every other night they spent together in the dead woman's house. Those evenings spent that didn't involve George haunting her family or Daisy prowling the streets like a vaudevillian hooker in a vintage fur coat.
"Okay." George said.
"Splendid." Daisy clapped her hands. "Now, let's order food to be delivered. Marvelous service in this city. What's that food that's as cheap as Chinese, but almost as good as Japanese?"
"Thai?"
"Yes. Thai. Lots of Thai. You know, I remember the time I blew Yul Brynner... But never mind all that. Should we invite Mason? He might have cigars."
"I like Mason," George said. And she did like Mason. She had to constantly remind the others in the undead reaping waffle club that Mason was her favorite strung-out addict. Her favor came despite the fact that he smelled like... Well, he smelled. And he was in love with Daisy and not her.
Actually, that was a bonus.
Mason had given them the house, after all, and he was always good company. Inviting him to a party was self-evident. George invited him to every wedding and funeral she attended.
"You should like Mason," Daisy said. "You're buying all his meals these days."
George smirked. "Including this one," she pointed out.
Daisy squared her shoulders. "Then it's settled. Wear something period."
"Like... from the last 18 years?"
Daisy rolled her eyes.
George asked, "So does this mean we're not watching Jeopardy tonight?"
"No television tonight, Georgia."
George sighed.
The party seemed nice enough. George had settled on the couch with Daisy's legs sprawled across her lap, listening to the old woman's music as Mason quivered near the record player. George tried to discern if it was her first party ever, outside of Happy Time festivities and that... unfortunate birthday incident... She wasn't entirely sure if three people counted as a party. Daisy seemed to think so; and she would know.
Mason played one of those songs that had a smoky female voice singing about heartbreak. George thought of jazz clubs she'd seen in movies about Nazis. The old woman whose house they squatted in had been a musician back in the day.
Back in life.
Mason's eyes were bloodshot and he couldn't hold eye contact with either of them. George worried, but he'd eaten his Pad Thai, which had cost her been four bucks. Him not eating it would have pissed her off.
"Oh, we had the relics of those old clubs in the underground," Mason said, stretching his thin frame. His tee shirt exposed his stomach, hollowed and gray as death. "Julie London. Billie Holiday. The real legends. By the 60s, they were just heroin houses with a stage. No jukeboxes. No karaoke. Not even the allure of the opium den by that point."
"A shame," Daisy said.
George nodded, while wondering what the fuck he was talking about.
"Can you imagine? Heroin and karaoke?" Mason laughed. "Anyway, the beatniks would come and read poetry sometimes, and the stoners brought their guitars. But it was the heroin chic that put on the real show. Fingers would bleed on the guitar strings from the needle pricks. They'd sing. Oh, they'd sing." Mason paused, and frowned. He cleared his throat and said, "What they'd sing about, I don't remember."
"Lovely story," said Daisy.
Mason asked her, "Well, why don't you tell us about another adventure in oral sex?"
"Guys," said George. They were going to ruin her fucking party.
"Let me finish. They'd puke on stage," said Mason, waving his hand for the grand finale of his tale. "I guess nowadays they'd call that 'performance art.'"
Daisy pursed her lips and tried to hide a smile.
The needle ran off the track. Mason jumped up. "What next," he said. "I wish I knew shit about jazz. That old lady made me play record after record, and I just wished she'd die."
Daisy sprawled against the couch. "Oh, who knows anything about jazz?"
Mason placed a record on the needle. "Ray Charles," he announced.
"Is he jazz? I don't think he is..." George said, and furrowed her brow. Daisy's calves were in her lap. George tried not to touch them. No way was she letting Daisy rest her feet there. As it was, she had a close view of Daisy's painted toes moving inside sheer nylons. Kicked-off high heels lay on the floor.
"R&B. Georgie, Georgie, Georgie," Mason said.
"Well, I just know that he died, and there was a movie I didn't see, and Reagan and all, but... what was the big deal?"
Daisy sighed. "I guess when you die young you never develop culture."
"Fuck you, Daisy Adair, She Who Lived to Be A Hundred." George said.
"Girls," said Mason.
George frowned at him.
Daisy narrowed her eyes.
"Care to dance?" He asked brightly.
Daisy swung her legs off George, and said, "I'd love to."
He stood and offered his hand. She accepted it and moved toward him with grace that took George's breath away. Daisy's hips swayed. Her slender wrists grasped by Mason's hands seemed as delicate as porcelain. The music played.
George took a sip of her wine. 18 or not, the undead were big drinkers. She couldn't remember if this was her second glass or her third. Daisy was in Mason's arms, and George wished it were her instead. She wanted to be in Mason's place, not Daisy's. She wanted to experience the weight of Daisy's arms on her shoulders, so that glamour and beauty would rub off on her.
Definitely her third glass.
"Ow," said Daisy.
"Sorry," said Mason.
"You dance like an elephant. A pissing drunk, crackhead elephant with two left feet."
"I can't help being high," he said.
"Mason."
"Well, I can't help it at the moment. It's a bleeding party."
Daisy pushed him into a chair. He landed with a grunt. Daisy pointed at George, and said, "You. Dance with me."
"What? No. I wouldn't be any better than him."
"I'll teach you."
George frowned. Daisy grabbed her hands and tugged. George felt she should protest, on principle, but she kind of wanted to dance with Daisy. She let herself be pulled to her feet. Daisy's arms slid around her waist. George nearly fell. She swayed from side to side, afraid to pick up her feet.
"First rule of dancing," said Daisy against her temple.
George could feel Daisy's breath mussing her hair. "Yeah?"
"Don't step on me."
George decided she was never picking up her feet.
Mason held out his hands in front of his face. His fingers shook. He bit his lip. "Girls, I'm going... out."
"Bye, Mason," said Daisy. Her lips moved against George's forehead.
Mason gave Daisy the finger and then stumbled toward the kitchen to go out the back door.
The song changed.
"Georgia..." sang Ray.
Daisy sighed. She gripped George tighter. George's face pressed against Daisy's shoulder. She grunted. The sound was muffled.
"Oh, Georgia..."
Daisy smelled like oranges. Her cheek touched George's ear. George closed her eyes. She admitted she wanted this moment. She wanted Daisy's fingers splayed against her back, and Daisy's cheek nuzzling the side of her face, even though she didn't know what it all meant.
"No peace, no peace I find..."
Heat warmed George's face, transferred from Daisy's skin, and Daisy's shoulders trembled against her. George imagined her crying, and asked, quietly, "Does this song remind you of home?"
"No," said Daisy.
George exhaled, and said, "Good, because it reminds me of Designing Women."
Daisy pulled back. she cupped George's face in both hands, and said, "You remind me of home."
George blinked. Daisy's eyes were wide open and dark. George could see herself reflected in them. It was her shell-self, mousy and pale and confused. "I've never been to Georgia," George said.
"It doesn't matter, silly. That's not what home is," Daisy said, and kissed her.
George closed her eyes. She let herself be kissed. She'd spent her whole life in that confused haze, guessing at other people's expectations, failing them. She lived on the fringe, now, in that hazy line of horizon. No one could see her, dancing to an old lady's record player, smelling of oranges and tasting of cheap wine. No one could see her, because no one believed such a moment was possible.
When Daisy drew back, her expression a mirror of George's wide fear, George leaned forward. She kissed Daisy again. She wouldn't have traded this song, this pressing of her mouth against Daisy's parted lips, for another whole lifetime of not knowing what she was missing. She sensed, and it made her oddly sad, that Daisy felt the same way.
END