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Honesty’s the Name of the Game We Play

Fran woke up and wondered where the hell she was. She didn’t pick up her head and just looked across the room not recognizing the austere and plain hotel room furnishings. This was not her room.
She was tempted to lift her head and turn but the weight of a person behind her didn’t allow for such movement. She tipped her head to see the arm that belonged to the hand that was clutching hers and was greeted with a large number “12” ingrained in the skin. As slowly and painfully as a tattoo is engraved and shaded into the skin, her realization of the night’s events came back to her.
She’d danced and drank, not as much as she did with her friends back home, but enough that it almost felt normal, okay. After Marshall had gotten her to loosen up, he introduced her to a few people and they were nice enough to pretend they knew who she was after her performance at the award show. By the time she’d had enough of the loud music, Marshall had as well, so they went back to his room for another drink.
She settled down on the couch, kicking off her shoes and pulling her legs underneath her, watching as Marshall bent over and searched through the mini bar. She swore she that she didn’t meant to say,
“Boy, I ain’t ever seen an ass like that.” But she did.
“And here I was thinking that I was the smartass,” he replied, returning to her side and handing her the opened bottle of beer.
“I can appreciate a good looking man when I see one,” she said as he handed the bottle to her. He’d sat down too close for comfort and she almost fidgeted as his nearness.
“Shy all of a sudden?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then sit still.” Marshall was to the point, and for some reason, Fran liked that. Smooth talking had it’s perks, but a straight man telling the truth always left more time for the important things, like talking. They sat silent for a moment, Marshall looking away as he put his own beer to his lips and took a swig.
“Are those stories you tell, are any of them true?” Marshall asked.
“Every one of them. Why, can’t believe ‘em?”
“No, I do, it’s just a lot of them are really personal, you talk more about yourself than anyone else.”
“Ever think that I’m just conceited?” He chuckled and she offered a smile, taking a hit off the bottle as she noticed that one of his knees was touching hers.
“How many of the stories that you tell have been without the permission of the people in the story?”
“None of them.”
“Then you’re not conceited. I’m conceited, so save that for me to deal with.” She was quiet again.
“You don’t talk about your dad, didn’t you know him?” This was a sore spot for Fran.
“Not really. I mean, I know who he is, but he’s never been around, never been in my life. He was sort of the scum around town. They kind of consider me the black bastard of the family, just because of him,” Fran replied stoically. She tried not to pretend that it didn’t bother her, but she was so used to not caring about him that it’s how it came out.
“Your mom’s white and your dad was black then?”
“You got it. My sisters, they’re actually my half-sisters. I mean, I love my step-dad, I actually call him my dad, I grew up with him, he’s a great guy, great to my mom and my sisters.”
“You ever miss having family that looks like you?”
“No. My family is my family, he walked out of it, so, that’s his regret to look back at, not mine. Anyway, as if you can’t tell, I don’t like talking about him.”
“I kind of figured that out, yeah.” He stared at her for a long time, so long that she had to look away.
“Hey, I’m right here, you know?”
“What?” she turned and looked at him.
“I’m right here,” he repeated, his face suddenly closer to hers than she ever remembered. Then he moved away.
“You understand that feeling of alienation, don’t you?” Fran asked.
“Alienation, why?”
“Being white in a black neighborhood, doing ‘black’ music, as they like to say.” He snorted slightly and laughed with a nod.
“You got that right, being trailer trash,” Marshall laughed. Fran held up her beer as in a toast,
“To crappy trailers, fathers that run off and feeling like the like the twisted twig in a bunch of flowers,” she laughed along with Marshall. He clicked his bottle against hers and shouted, “Amen!” Their laughter abated after a long while and then it was quiet again.
“You understand though,” she said with a little bit of seriousness to her voice.
“And you ain’t told me your life story,” he reminded her.
“Well, that’s pretty obvious, but this isn’t like a fairy tale or something, I don’t believe in that crap, hardly. When my mom told me the story about Cinderella, I just asked her why the bitch didn’t go to payless and get a pair of plastic shoes so they wouldn’t break!” Marshall was laughing so hard that his pale skin was red and he had tears in his eyes.
“Shit, that is the best one I’ve heard in a long, long time. I like that one, really Fran, it’s really great.” She allowed a comfortable silence to lapse between them, a silence that seemed to be bringing them closer together rather than a gap of widening unknowns.
“So is this a one night stand, or a pity fuck, Marshall?” She drank the last swallow in the bottle and looked over at the table as she leaned over to put the bottle down.
“We’re on a defining level already?”
“You’re being honest, I thought we’d just clear the air so there is no confusion. I mean, I’m not looking for something permanent, and I doubt you are, so lets be honest.” She was wrecking the easiness between them but she didn’t want things getting too friendly, she had too many “friends”, as it was now.
“Honest?” he asked, eyeing her, his bottle dangling in his hand.
“Yes, honest.”
“Honestly, I just thought that you and I could kick it for a while, and if you want to take it there, I’ll take it there. But don’t fool yourself into believing that you ain’t gonna have a problem in the morning,” he got up as he spoke, depositing the bottles in the trash.
“A problem?” she asked with screwed up eyebrows.
“A problem with leaving.”
“I never said that I’d have that problem.”
“I said don’t fool yourself into thinking that you won’t have a problem with leaving, two seconds into this and you ain’t paying attention,” he laughed, grabbing her hand and pulling her up off the couch.
“I’m paying attention, just don’t fool yourself into thinking that I’ll still be here in the morning.”
“I won’t.” Those were the last words she remembered until she felt his smile pressing into her shoulder, saying,
“Good morning, Fran.”
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