"Old Causes and Older Affectations (Sophia in Roanoke)"
Drinks are ordered, hers something with cucumber and bitters imported from Italy. At least I think it was Italy. Mine's a medium priced bourbon. Neat. I'm in a fairly cute (and by my standards a little sexy?) thrift store dress. She’s in a blazer, whose style says she has opinions about things like European sedans and olive oil. Her perfume says it was sold in a store with unnecessarily wide aisles and no dust. I smell like deodorant. I hope. She takes a sip of her drink, looks around, and makes that odd suburban woman purr noise. “Mmmm. Cleaner.” I have no idea if this refers to the cucumber, her outfit, the bar, her life?
We're home for our dad's early retirement party, out for a sisters' night out at (by our hometown's standards) a trendy new bar, close enough to where we used to sneak cigarettes behind the rec center, but far enough away from the lovely new home of her (ahem) friend Tara (who stole away my sister's senior year boyfriend). She laughs easily tonight, so easily it almost becomes harder to picture her crying on the floor of our shared bedroom.
I love my sister. I do. She paid for dinner and complimented my earrings like an actual adult. But I watch the way the bartender leans in when she talks, how people nod like she belongs here, in a way I never do. In a way I never will.
Sometimes I think that family is both a thing you love, and a thing you love to get the fuck away from.