boy toy.

Abbie started drinking early today. Every once in a while, usually when she's had a bad day, she'll start at around 3, sometimes even 2:15. She has her own bar in her room, a glass case filled with different handles of different liquor. She hardly drinks beer, it's not good for her figure. And she hardly drinks wine either, she's not that classy. She has a shaker, a bowl of slightly moldy limes, a salt shaker and different sizes of glass cups, some of them nice. She gathered them from the shop most likely. She always takes the good stuff for herself. Other glasses were jelly jars that her grandma used. She never used them, but they're there.

"What do you think, kids?"

She turned to look at her ferrets, Adelaide and Mojo. Her only companions were sleeping in their rusting cage, curled into furry circles. She'd woken an hour earlier to the sound of heavy rain and still hadn't made it downstairs to the store. It was 2 in the afternoon.

"Mimosa or Mojito, my little darlings?"

She figured since it was sort of morning she'd go with the Mimosa. At least it had orange juice in it. She took the old champagne out of her glass cabinet. She took the half full jug of orange juice and poured them into a glass cup. She sniffed, sipped, and felt a little bit better about her day. She hesitantly dressed, slipped up her ripped tights, and placed her vintage heels on. Slowly, glass in hand, she made it downstairs to the store.

It was cluttered, as usual. Items stuffed in nicks and crannies, some things that Abbie had never seen before. She continued to sip. She made her way behind the counter and sat on her tattered revolving stool. She propped her feet on the desk, not taking care if her dress let a little something show.

She continued to sip. Luckily, if she ran out, she had another mini fridge under the desk. She drank fast, and refilled. She figured there was nothing better to do in the day.

She looked around. She had conjoining windows with Styx Meats. It served as a distraction.

Abbie has a list of men in her life. Can she remember all the names? No. But does that really matter? No. But ever since she moved here she's always had her eye on Dave. Yes, Dave Gorlomi. The butcher. Whether it's because he was the only man she really ever saw or because she was genuinely attracted to him, it is unknown. He's not the most glamorous of all men but she's not worried about the quality of men anymore, just how many she can squeeze into one night. She especially likes Dave because she can always smell the booze on him when she walks into Styx Meats. It's like a "coming home" type of feeling. She likes to think that she could have him wrapped around her little finger. Like a boy toy. She hasn't had one in ages. She's seen the way he looks at her when she "happens" to carry her martini into Styx with her. She knows he can't resist the juice. So she has a plan. She plans to lure him in with her collection of Jack, Jim and José. And if he resists, well then she'll bring in the girls. Her loyal girls, the high class girls. And if that doesn't work, then she'll have to roll up her own stockings (which she has no problem doing what-so-ever. Actually she would probably prefer to do it that way.) But until then, she watches him through the window peeking from Abbott's Dream Antiques in Styx Meats. She takes note of his peak times to take a swig. She knows that when he gets especially sweaty in the afternoons, with dried blood all over his hands and the lack of customers coming in, it's his prime time for a drink. And then it's time for a slow waltz into Styx with her own mix of rum and coke.

hello.

Some people say that she was an actress.

Some people say she’s made of plastic.

Some people say that she’s boring.

Some people say that she’s drastic.

Some people say that she’s young.

Some people say that she’s old.

Some people say that she’s charming.

Some people say that she’s cold.

Some people say she’s evil.

Some people say she’s a vamp.

Some people say she’s a martyr.

Some people say she’s a tramp.

But in all truth it never matters what people say, because nobody knows the truth.

She’s a fan of lipstick, pantyhose, and vintage dress patterns. She’s a fan of high-heeled shoes, floral-patterned tablecloths, and Chanel. She doesn’t like poetry, romanticism or flowers. She doesn’t like children, rock and roll or the concept of happy hour. She wears what she wears, she wants what she wants and she drinks when and wherever she drinks. It’s obvious that she’s dabbled in some cosmetic surgery (it’s a fun game to imagine how many places she’s been nipped and tucked,) which must have been done before she ended up here – selling antiques to people who don’t matter. But there’s something charming about how she still chooses to wear ripped stockings.

Some people say she’s a hooker.

Some people say she fights crime.

Some people say she’s a writer.

Men always say she’s divine.

Aberdeen “Abbie” Angus is not her real name. If anyone knew her real name I’d be the first one to know, and trust me I haven’t heard anything.

There’s something mysterious about her. People are drawn to her, people want to know her. But who knows if it has anything to do with her or if it’s just people’s natural addiction to gossip.

Her driver’s license reads 5’ 8” and 120 pounds. Anyone who has ever seen Abbie knows that she hardly even touches 5’ 6” and that’s on a good day. A good day with four-inch heels. And 120 pounds is quite suspicious, considering each of her “natural,” bulbous jubblies must weigh at least 4 pounds each. Her birthday is the 9^th of June, 1978 which would make her 31, in her dreams.

Some say that she had an amazing youth. Some say she had a wasted youth. Some say she laughed with Charlie Chaplin. Some say she danced with Fred Astaire. Some say she wrote with Orson Welles. Some say she drank with Marilyn Monroe. Some even said that she smoked with Janis and Jimi.

But to be honest, it never mattered what she did or what she wanted to be, it’s all about who she is.

She has medium length, somewhat frizzy, somewhat curly, brownish hair. Most days she wishes it was red or blonde. And most days she would rather wish than do. Some of that has to do with the one drink (or the next 3 or 4) she always has at 1 in the afternoon. But most of it has to do with her lack of determination in the life that she is living.

She always thought she’d die young, and it kills here everyday when she wakes up in the morning and sees her spreading wrinkles and realizes that she’s still alive.