The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Chapter 10

Venus

Art burst through the apartment door, startling David, who sat on the sofa, sketching a picture on the back of the electric bill. She had drawn a wingless bird with a human face, scratched dark with pencil.

"Blimey!" she exclaimed, her pencil tip snapping on the table. "You nearly made my heart give out!"

"Sorry, David," Art rushed, "but everyone's going out for happy hour, and I don't want to be late."

"Isn't it fashionable to be late?" David asked.

Art was a blur rushing to his bedroom, loosening his shirt collar, studying his face in the mirror. "I have no idea what's fashionable," he said. "But get yourself together; we're meeting everyone at Ice, like," he glanced at the clock, "like now."

"We?" questioned David.

"Yes, we," said Art. "You don't think I can navigate my very first after work happy hour without my wingman, do you?"

"Your wingman?"

Art stood in the doorway and pleaded with his eyes. "For real, David. I have never been to a social gathering of colleagues outside of work before. I have no idea how to act in the real world."

"And you think I know anything about being in the real world?" David laughed.

"I know you know a lot more about handling social situations," said Art. "Please come, I beg you." He got down on his knees and held his hands together, begging.

David shook her head. "Oh, all right, you old sot. Let me find something to wear." She set her drawing aside and rifled through a stack of clothes on the floor. She could have gone out as she was – black and white pinstriped slacks, blue sweater dress and a pink scarf – but she knew happy hour was a sacred time, a time for magic. She stripped down to her undies and stretched her legs into a pair of purple and green striped tights. She added a green and yellow striped turtleneck with one sleeve torn off, and checked herself in the mirror. She searched for something, not knowing what, and wandered into Art's bedroom. She looked him up and down. "What? You're not changing?" she asked him.

"Everyone else is going straight from work," he explained. "I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard."

She smirked. "No worries about that. But you look nice."

"You picked this out, remember."

"I picked it out for the office," she explained, "not for an evening on the town." She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "But it's fine. Now, what was I looking for." She resumed her search, and sorted through the closet. She came out holding a small, green laundry basket, ripped up the side. She tore it even further, then reached for the scissors on Art's desk. She cut out the entire bottom of the basket, and holding it upside down, fastened it around her waist like a cage skirt. "There," she said with satisfaction. "I just need some shoes." She walked back to the living area and slipped on a black pair of ballet flats. She turned to Art, "How do I look?"

"Incredible," he said, and he meant it. "Let's go."

***

Upon Art's insistence, not to mention eagerness, the two took a taxi to Ice, a fairly new, very upscale restaurant and lounge that was an epicenter for professionals in the city. There was always a line outside waiting to get in, and tonight, a Friday night happy hour, was no exception. The crowd snaked along the sidewalk outside the brick building, its silver awning over the entrance gleaming the single word Ice in glittering letters. Scores of businessmen and women in dark suits, jeans, blazers and sweaters littered the pavement. It was a sea of black.