SUMMARY: West Hollywood nocturne. Shane and Moira.
She’s not entirely sure what woke her. Her eyes dart back and forth into the silvery moonlit shadows, blinking.
She extricates herself from Carmen’s arm and Carmen’s hair, and after sitting up and staring at the wall for a second, sniffles and slides out of bed. She pulls a discarded white beater off the floor and slips it over her lanky body. She pulls her cigarettes off the shelf and gently closes the door.
She doesn’t turn on lights. That feels like it would disturb the peace of night. She’s always enjoyed darkness. Jenny, however, can’t stand absolute pitch black. She sees a sliver of warm dim light coming from her room.
She couldn’t articulate what compels her to step closer to the door, listen for sound. She hears nothing. She peeks inside the room where Jenny is sleeping like a child, alone under frilly white covers. Her eyes are closed and smeared with makeup, and the white paper lanterns move slightly in the breeze from the open window. Jenny is alone. Moira has obviously not come home.
A twinge of concern flits over her features, before she closes the door softly and turns.
She shuts the door quietly, sits down on the side porch. In the moonlight she can make out one of Carmen’s canvas sneakers, shredded by Otto. The puppy is gone, claimed by his owner. No more pee on the floor. She misses the insistent scramble of his tiny paws, the wiggle of his body.
The coolness of the night makes the fine hairs on the backs of her legs stand up. She lights up and sets the lighter and cigarettes down beside her. She takes a drag then blows it out in a cloud, trying to unravel the vaguely anxious dream she was having when she woke. But no particulars remain, just pure emotion. Confusion.
She smokes the cigarette down to the end, then fights the urge to have another one. She sits there for a long time, the paleness of her shirt and her skin milky in the moonlight.
Lobsters, she thinks. She envisions them in their boiling pot, screaming. That was some fucked up dinner conversation right there. The tension. It was awful. She feels a pang of guilt that she didn’t do something, say something. Engage her in conversation. Anything. She’s a sweet girl.
She remembers when she first came to L.A. She was only twelve, but no doubt she made Moira look downright cosmopolitan by comparison. “Hey, kid, I’ve seen your mom, let me take you to where she might be.”
So stupid. She pushes the thought away, and wishes she’d brought a beer out with her. Tomorrow’s Sunday, it won’t matter, right?
She sniffles and pushes the cigarette box around a bit on the wooden porch.
A faint sound gets her attention. She turns her head to hear better. Angelica is crying. Something deep inside her urges that she go see to the baby, but she stops herself. It only takes a minute until a light goes on, a dim night-light like the one Jenny has. She thinks she can hear a few notes of singing. Tina. She realizes that she’s lit up another cigarette.
She strains to catch the rest of the song. She feels as if she’s eavesdropping, invading the familial privacy of Bette and Tina’s home, but it’s mothering, and half-awake, in her dream-fuddled state, she’s drawn to it. She knows her own mother would have sung to her if she could.
Too old for this shit, she thinks, blowing a perfect smoke ring into the night, but she doesn’t make herself get up. Take it where you can get it. Even if it’s not for you.
The singing stops, and Shane crushes the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray. The wind rattles the palms in Bette and Tina’s yard.
Something is bothering her about Carmen. Something she can’t put her finger on. But when she looks at her, all the blood in her body pulses south. All the moisture too, and she can feel the dryness of it in her mouth. And the mere thought of what that does to her body makes it happen again.
Angelica has stopped crying. Good baby, she thinks. Still the light stays on. Maybe Tee fell asleep while nursing.
She sits there, staring into space, until her breathing evens and her head drops. Should go back in, she thinks, without feeling any motivation toward doing so.
A car comes up the street. She can see the headlights as it slows, leaning toward the driveway to see. It passes, then the engine cuts. Hollywood is so quiet. Shane rubs her bleary face and hugs her knees close. The breeze is suddenly cold.
The sound of footsteps coming up the walk makes her heart skip a beat. But in the moonlight she can make out the long dark shock of hair falling into Moira’s face, the distinct swagger.
“Moira?” She calls out, so the girl doesn’t get startled.
“Hey. Who’s there?” That voice seems so high and girlish, so strange coming from her. Moira sounds afraid.
“It’s Shane.”
Moira comes around the corner. “Hey,” she says. In the dim light Moira seems very pale, and for an instant her eyes seem silver. Shane thinks of vampires and feels a shiver coil at the bottom of her spine. She looks up as Moira walks past her toward the door.
“Hey?” Shane whispers.
Moira turns and looks. In the defined shadows the curve of her jaw is sharp, her lips full.
“Moira, I’m sorry. Really.”
Moira stands there, one hand on the door, the other thrust deep into her jeans pocket. Shane sees the second of wariness before Moira plasters on an unaffected look.
“I don’t know what you mean.” And she slips through the door before Shane can formulate a word, leaving her with her mouth open and eyes concerned.
Inside, Moira slips out of her shirt, unbuttoning and parting it. “I want you to stand against the wall...” Inexplicable tears come back to her eyes and she turns her back to the wall, lifting the tee shirt from her body, sliding out of the jeans. She slides into bed wearing nothing but boxer briefs, but she doesn’t get under the covers. Jenny stirs in her sleep, mumbles something, turns toward her, but she faces the wall, crossing her arms, pushing her hands under her armpits for warmth.
One room over, Shane does the same, while Carmen sleeps on.
SERIES/CONTINUITY: Set immediately after "Lobster."
WARNINGS: Spoilers through 3.3, "Lobster."
RATING: PG-13 for one sexual reference.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I have no idea where this story's gonna go. The lobster-muse pinched my ass.