“Let’s toast to Lorraine,” Brittany says, holding up her glass. “To freedom, at last!” My sister never liked Nick, not from the very start.
“To freedom!” Donna echoes.
“To new beginnings,” Erica says, clinking our glasses.
I don’t feel like toasting or being toasted, but I am enjoying this drink. I don’t need the drink, though. I’m not trying to escape any particular kind of feeling. Maybe I should be feeling relieved that the legal process is over, or sad that I’m alone for the first time since my very early adulthood, or lighter somehow maybe. I feel all of that, but I also hardly feel any of it.
I’m numb, I guess, and I don’t know how I can still be numb after such a long, drawn-out divorce. Neither of us made things difficult, but the state required a lengthy separation before the divorce could go through. Maybe I was in denial early on, but I’ve processed things. I thought I was ready to move on.
“Lorraine, you are so much better off,” Donna says, really making me wonder about the state of her marriage. “You can do what you want, when you want. You’re your own woman.”
“She’s always been her own woman,” Brittany says. “Only now she’s not tied down to that asshole.”
Out of habit, I open my mouth to defend Nick, but then I close it again. They’re right. I’m free. He wasn’t a terrible husband, but he wasn’t a prize either. Then again, neither was I.
Brittany takes a long drink of her cocktail and sets it on the table with so much force that some of the liquid sloshes over the rim. “Men suck.”
Erica laughs. “Then why did we come to a club specifically to watch them?”
Brittany shrugs, like it wasn’t her idea. “Dating them, getting involved with them, expecting anything decent from them — all of that sucks. Doesn’t mean we can’t come and watch them dance around in their underwear.”
That gets a small smile from me, and Donna cracks up.
“You love them,” Donna tells Brittany. “You just like to pretend you don’t.”
My sister’s never been married, and she’s never been lucky in love. She dates, followed by long periods where she doesn’t want anything to do with men. Then she starts dating again, and the cycle repeats. She’s met a lot of losers, and I used to think that she might envy the fact that I was in a longtime marriage, even though she claimed not to like Nick. I thought I was the lucky one.
“Have you dated any of the performers?” Donna asks Brittany, who shakes her head.
“Not interested. I like my men older,” Brittany says. “Gives them half a chance to have some maturity.” She snorts at her own comment, like the maturity is still a long shot, no matter their age.
The lights dim and flash, and Donna squeals. “Ooh, it’s starting soon!”
I glance around and realize I hadn’t been paying attention to the space around us, which is now packed tightly with women. And though I thought this place was meant for younger women, apparently I was wrong, because we are not the oldest here, not by far.
“I’m so excited!” Donna says, stating the obvious.
She’s not the only one. A hush comes over the crowd when the lights go dark, but then the chanting starts. At first I think they’re saying “Red, red, red,” but then I realize it’s “Men, men, men,” which makes a lot more sense.
The cheering and hollering reaches a frenzied peak when the red stage curtains part and a man struts out. He’s a cowboy, shown only in silhouette at first, but then the lighting shifts and his face is revealed.
He’s attractive, in a standard sort of way. He doesn’t do anything for me.
The man starts to dance, raising his hands behind his head, flexing his biceps and thrusting his hips, and he could be my tax accountant for all my body cares.
I’m nothing but numb.
2
Lorraine
I take another gulp from my drink and observe the people around me. I’m definitely the odd woman out. Everyone is very into the show. Even Brittany has a gleam in her eye, though she’d probably deny it.
The music changes and different men come out, a new group dressed like construction workers. They have nice bodies, but it’s as if I’m an anthropologist, observing a new society, trying to decipher the people’s strange behavior. I should probably turn my focus inward and try to figure out why I’m so detached from it all.
More performances — pirates, football players, firemen. It’s all a bit cheesy, but I’m apparently in the minority for thinking so. The waiter comes by and I order another drink while the other three women at my table keep their eyes glued to the stage.
I’m halfway through my refill when a surprisingly mellow love song fills the room. The curtain is drawn, but it soon parts to reveal a small table at the center of the stage. The crowd is relatively quiet until a murmur ripples through it. I notice heads turning and follow their gaze to see a man approaching the stage, weaving around tables at the side of the room.