adelaide beauregard.
She is right, obviously. Men just happened to look at pretty girls like Miranda and devour them with their eyes. The feeling that she should go there and shove him out of the bar and force him to apologize for the inappropriate gazes is almost strong enough to make her do something. Instead, she lets Miranda light her cigarette and thinks for a moment.
It’s a cool night, and it feels heavy. It’s better than being inside a crowded bar with frat boys and their unending appetite. “I can do that.” She decides, taking the first step down the road.
She doesn’t know this part of town, too busy surrounded by the townhouses and white suburban dream of her own neighbourhood, but every building reeks with youth and excitement. It rubs off on her too; maybe this is why Miranda invited her there, to give her an opportunity to feel young again.
Secret Squirrel, she almost smiles at that. It feels like equal parts pet name and inside joke. Like most of the things between them, Addie felt unusually unfit around Miranda, not cool enough, always a step back — on the slang, on the joke, on the plans. And this was just another instance of that, her lack of creativity being bested by Miranda’s most simple and carefree thoughts. That was one of the things that kept Addie interested.
They walk on the sidewalk, side by side, but not touching. Adelaide doesn’t want to make the first move, because even though she is very aware of her reputation and rumours about her sexuality, she decides that she doesn’t need to confirm anything. Especially not to a journalist. “Are you going to tell me why you dragged me down to this part of town or I’ll have to guess it myself?” She asks, mostly to fill the silence between them. She drags on the cigarette, and then blows the smoke; she looks at Miranda, interested, slightly sarcastic: “And don’t bother saying that it’s just for the pleasure of my company because I know I’m not that interesting.” Because that would have certainly be a twist in her night.
It occurs to Miranda, as they start down the street, that were it not for her Addie wouldn’t likely venture into this part of DC on her own and that, in spite of having lived in the city longer than Miranda she probably doesn’t know the area.
She’s been here a little over a year now. In the same apartment, walking down the same street, to go to the same bars, to go to the same diners, to go to work. This is her street and there’s something comforting in being the one who knows where they’re going, in being the one who gets to say, “It’s pretty down this way.” Jutting her chin to indicate a right at the corner, and they do turn.
It is pretty down this way. A street lined with cherry trees and low lamplight. Even in spite of the fact that the flowers have gone from pink to white – nearing the end of their lives, it’s still lovely. The sidewalk is littered with fallen white blooms, they tread softly over them.
The street is only half gentrified and it’s easy to tell which homes are populated by working class families and which are populated by hipsters whose fathers pay their rent.
“What if I said that it was?” Feeling daring, she smiles if only to see the reaction it’ll get. “I don’t have many,” Scratch that, any, “Friends in this city. Maybe I just needed a walk. A little banter. Made it sound urgent to get you down here.” She drags on her cigarette and when she glances sidelong at the other’s profile she puffs out a little cloud of smoke.
