Zhanna Slor - At the End of the World, Turn Left

My heart flutters with nerves. Now that the time has come to emulate him, I no longer feel so lighthearted about it. “I don’t think I can do this,” I whisper in his ear.

Tristan kisses me again. “You can do anything,” he says. No one has ever said this to me before and it makes me a little bit giddy. It makes me want to prove him right. That, combined with the stream of alcohol I’d just imbibed, sends a brief surge of temporary calm into my system. Maybe I really can do it. Tristan is right. These people will barely notice the absence of twenty, thirty dollars, and for me, that’s lunch for a week.

I finish the rest of my wine in one gulp. “Do you think they will know it was me?” I ask.

“Nah. You look like a college student. You look like one of them,” he says.

“Not to them I don’t.”

Tristan slaps my butt. “See? Use that anger. It’ll make you less nervous.”

“Who said I was angry?”

“Aren’t these the same fuckers who made you sit in a bathroom for lunch?”

“I really wish I hadn’t told you that.”

“I don’t. I want to know you.”

I almost smile, hearing him say that. He is really quite sweet for a criminal. Considering his upbringing, it demonstrates a lot about his nature. As an attempt to procrastinate, and pretend we are here as nothing but partygoers, I ask him, “Where did you eat lunch at school?”

“I didn’t.” Tristan leans against the granite countertop of the kitchen island and crosses his arms over his chest. “If I went to school, I was usually shooting up by lunch somewhere. In my car, likely.”

“Oh,” I say, sadly. “I keep forgetting you were so… into drugs.”

“You don’t have to worry,” he says, licking his lips. “Those days are behind me.”

“I know.” I expand my focus to the rest of the party again, and my glance lands on a bright yellow purse that’s been left on the floor. It’s sitting next to a six-pack and a stack of winter coats worth more than a year’s worth of rent. For a moment I try to imagine myself walking by and taking it, as casually as if it was my own. But this image is replaced by another one—being chased down the road by an angry mob of perfectly tousled blonde hair. I start to second-guess my ability to pull this off.

“I’ll be right here,” he says, and that’s all I need. Where is everyone else who promised the same? Nowhere to be found. Tristan means what he says, and he cares about me. Whenever I’m around him I feel like I can be myself, and I’ve never had that feeling before in my life. It feels like freedom. And sure, it comes with certain costs. But I like trying new things. Generally, going out of my comfort zone is more exciting than scary.

Plus, the people here are so drunk; it’s the perfect setting to make a first attempt at theft. If I get caught, I can claim it was an accident, that I mistook the purse for my own. I take a long breath. I let go of Tristan, then stride across the room. My heart is beating into my chest like I’ve just run a mile. When I reach the purse, I swallow the knee-jerk inclination I have to look around and make sure no one is watching. Instead, I try to be cool. I bend over like I’m tying the laces of my all-black converse shoes. Then, rather than take the entire purse, I reach into the bag and feel around for a wallet. Soon my fingers land on a smooth pleather pouch filled with coins, cash, and cards. I snap the pouch closed, slide it into my right coat pocket, and stand up. I’m not as fast as I would like, but I’m fast enough. No one seems to notice anything; I don’t feel anyone watching me or hear anyone screaming for me to stop. Immediately I cross the threshold back into the foyer and, seeing some stairs, practically run to the top of them.

Tristan is only a few seconds behind me. He pins me against the wall of the hallway, and starts kissing me.

“That was dope,” he says, smiling.

My heart is pounding so hard I feel it in my ears. But I’m also totally energized. Is this how Tristan feels when he’s doing drugs? I wonder. “Did anyone see me?” I ask him.

“No. You did great,” he says. He kisses me again. My body is full of adrenaline now, but also something else. Not guilt. Relief. Excitement. I’d actually gotten away with it. And possibly solved my money problems at the same time. At least, temporarily. I drag Tristan by the arm into a closed bedroom on the second floor and try to catch my breath. As happy as I am to have my freedom, I would like to continue to have it. All I want to do now is hide.

“Did we get enough stuff?” I ask. “Can we go?”

“We can go whenever you want,” Tristan explains, lying down on the bed. “Fuck this is comfortable. How much do you think this bed costs?”

“I’m really bad at that game.”

“More than a grand, I can tell you that much for sure.”

“Who pays more than a grand for a bed?” I ask, but of course, I know the answer to this question. Rich people. They spend money on expensive items just so other people can see they were able to afford it. Why else do all my aunts and uncles need three-bedroom homes in the suburbs when none of them have any children left in the house?

Out in the hall, I hear a duo of drunk girls trying to find the bathroom. One of them opens the door to see us standing there, mouths an O of surprise, then closes it with a giggle. I get up to lock the door and return to sit by Tristan, who is taking his shoes off and making himself comfortable.

“See? I told you it would be easy,” Tristan says triumphantly, running a finger up and down my arm. “No one would ever suspect you.”

“It’s only because they’re wasted.” I look down at my outfit; ripped black jeans, black t-shirt, thick black down coat. Even my hair is so dark it’s almost black. The girls who not two seconds ago saw us in there were half glitter and one hundred percent fake tan. “I don’t exactly blend in.”

“Have you ever gotten a compliment before in your entire life? Jesus, girl,” Tristan laughs. “You did a good job.”

He starts to pull off my coat, the inside nearly stuck to my arms from sweat from the heat of the house. It doesn’t seem like he is in any hurry to leave. Since no one is out there chasing us down, I figure it’s okay. I’m also weirdly turned on by the whole endeavor, my adrenaline still spiking and causing my entire body to buzz. I roll on top of him and we start to make out. Having spent the last few nights on an acquaintance’s couch, Tristan and I haven’t exactly had any alone time together. I’m hoping this little escapade will give us enough money to get a hotel, or a temporary sublease for a room. Or a ticket out of Milwaukee. Anything.

“Do you think we got enough? Should we find a checkbook or something?” I ask Tristan, between kisses.

“We’re good.” He flips me around so that I’m under him in one seamless move. “You’re sexy when you talk like that.”

I let out a nervous giggle. “What was I before? Hideous?”

“No,” he says, taking off my pants. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

It doesn’t take long for us to be fully undressed.

Afterward, we make a quick exit down the stairs. Sobering up from both the wine and the adrenaline, I can’t help but steal a glance at the purse I’d stolen from, and am relieved to find it hasn’t moved. That’s good. Whoever left it there, she won’t know yet that anything is gone. She probably won’t notice until morning, if she’s as drunk as everyone here looks. Because I’m feeling confident, I even grab one of the North Face coats on the table as I walk past so I won’t freeze on the way home. Now I focus on leaving. The kitchen is so packed with bodies the windows and glass patio doors are starting to steam. A boombox is playing a rap song I’ve never heard before. A large group of frat guys keep themselves busy tapping a keg in the middle of the room.