“Dangerous chicks are sought after by Big Softees. But the trick is that they themselves are most of the times crazy about dudes who are more dangerous than themselves”. Q started making these realizations when she was pushing thirty.
“Dangerous chicks?” I gave her a puzzled look. “Yeah; the kind of chicks who would move to Iceland to graze moose if they fell in love with an Eskimo, you know that kind of shit.” I felt a sudden flush of hope she was talking about me. I didn’t exactly move to Iceland and my familiarity with any form of cattle grazing is quite poor altogether; but I was hoping that Q meant it all metaphorically. It just sounded so appealingly tempting to be thought of as Dangerous. A Dangerous Chick. Not just a woman. Not your any random girl. A Dangerous Chick. “Or you know the kind of chick who spends a night with that Eskimo dude, and then ignores him for weeks or even months just to suddenly raid his igloo in the middle of the night and impose her supremacy by ostentatiously leaving her toothbrush in his bathroom.” I didn’t even take a second to wonder whether moose actually existed in Iceland and whether it was possible that igloos had bathrooms at all. All I got was that: no; Q wasn’t talking about me. She was talking about herself.
“How do you know?” I asked. “I just know. I noticed”. She paused. “It’s fucked up”. She gave me an exasperated look and exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke. I had quit smoking a while before, but it still tickled my appetite. She looked puzzled. And worried. “So; what are you going to do about it?” I asked. “Nothing I guess”.
“Fuck. It’s already February. The world’s loneliest month.” I personally think that November is the loneliest but I smiled and nodded. “That motherfucker got back to me out of the blue after almost two years.” “Really? What did you do?” “I told him to go fuck himself or his Chinese slut.” Q has issues with Chinese women. Apparently a man she was seeing for almost a year had a flair for them and cheated on her with a few; having met some of them in the swingers’ club. I guess that’s how prejudices are born. Straight from experience. Since we met I don’t recall her referring to him differently than “that motherfucker”. I have never met the guy, but whatever of what she’s saying is true; she must have been scarred and wounded heavily. I had not known her before it happened, but since I did meet her, which is when she was technically in recovery I have seen her try to date different men and it never seemed to work. I saw her with some bad guys and with the good ones. I saw her with a Russian ventriloquist, with an American investor, with a Uruguayan dog trainer and a Slovak IT specialist. Nothing seemed to work though. Q always seemed to have blown it off. Kind of on purpose. I would often see her shaking like a leaf before her first date, then second, fifth and seventh; pale, scared and stiff, not being herself at all, with shaky hands. Oddly beautiful, tall and proud as I knew her she was shaking each time. And then she would always push the guy away by pulling off something crazy. Like her toothbrush number. “It’s so that I don’t open up and he doesn’t judge me” she would explain to me every time I asked “Why Q? Why now again?”
“Fuck that. I’m done with that shit.”
Q holds a degree or two in several geeky fields but she’s definitely a fan of linguistic simplicity. Whoever she’s speaking to she always has the same manner of speaking. She is always the same whatever the circumstances whoever the interlocutor; she never changes. Once the Queen of Queens now a self-proclaimed Duchess of Jersey (because it’s cheaper and more ‘neighborhoody’) she may appear a snotty malcontent to some, but she just really is what she is. She seems to have ground all the convenances into dust just to make an image “carpet” like the ones the Buddhist monks make to practice patience, silence and the quiet acceptance of the short-lived, and now she’s walking all over it with her flamboyant careless grace and with a bit of a swagger; proud and superior. All she cares about convenances is whatever leftovers are stuck to the soles of her shoes. I am a couple of years older so Q is like my little sister but with this quality of her character she impresses me like no other. It gives her a celebrity potential. Because of that only her pictures should be featured in magazines instead of images of Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton so that little girls and disheartened housewives could have someone to look up to. She’s solid and true. If that was the case I would be the first to rip those pictures out of the pages of the magazines and put them up on my walls.
“I’m done with this. I’m done with this bullshit romance.” “So what are you going to do for your birthday?” I asked, because Q is one of the three people I know born on the exact same date in February. That is ; me, my mother and Q. “I don’t know I’ll probably go to bed with J. Just for the fun of it. I’m out of love but I need some every now and then especially when I’m vulnerable, the way I am in the world’s loneliest month. I’m done with dating and falling in love. At the end of the day men take us out only so that we would take them in. I just choose to skip the first part. I’m tired of it.” I guess Q doesn’t know that when a man sleeps around it is in all probability because he doesn’t love whoever he’s in a relationship with, or because he’s not able to love anyone but himself. When a woman sleeps around it’s most of the times because she loves. But for this reason or another she has to push herself into oblivion by forcing herself to make love to somebody else. Maybe Q will get closer to this realization when she approaches pushing 40. And in the meantime: Happy Month of the In-Loves Susy Q.