They had met at the Warhol party.
Angela wandered over to the designated drug taking area on the building's roof, cigarette in one violet-nailed hand, the other scrabbling in her bag for a lighter of match. Finding neither, she sighed in exasperation, before sticking out her hip and adopting a coy, waif-ish expression.
None of the junkies (male or female) responded to her silent cry for light; either they were too busy snorting/enhaling/injecting to take notice of her, or they were too aware of exactly who her ex-boyfriend was, and wouldn't want word getting back to him they'd been kind to her.
Angela's smile faltered, as she stood like an insignificant, trembling statue for another moment. Still receiving no recognition, she abruptly turned in the direction of the roof's stairs, and as a result, turned right into the person standing somewhat behind her.
"Shit," they muttered in a clear, feminine voice, ducking down to shove their belongings back into their purse.
Sighing, Angela got on her hands and knees to help. "Sorry," she apologized distractedly, scooping up lipsticks and guitar picks.
"It's fine," they replied. Hastily grabbing a rubber Angela was about to pick up, they continued drily, "To tell you the truth, you're the only person here who has spoken to me."
Angela handed them their things; they murmured "Thank you," with their head still bent and their long brown hair hiding their face.
As she stood up to go, Angela saw a small silver something in the shadowy corner of the roof. "Hold on," she told the person, and bent back down to pick up the lighter, for that was what had caught the light so.
Remembering the cigarette she had tucked back into her bag moments beforehand, Angela asked, "Hey, do you mind if I use this?"
Standing up as well, her companion caught sight of the object through their curtain of hair, and told her, "No, it's fine.
"In fact," they continued, taking the lighter from Angela with one silver-nailed hand and pushing back their hair with the other, "I'll light you up."
They turned out to be a young woman, pale and petite, with a lovely heart shaped face. Dark red lipstick made her mouth severe, and thick eye makeup distracted from the vulnerable brokenness shimmering in her blues, that Angela nonetheless picked up and recognized immediately. Angela recognized all of her immediately; impossible not to, when her image had been plastered in all the major (English) music magazines for over a year, next to that of her ex-husband's.
Taking a long drag on her cigarette, Angela commented, "I heard you've given up his name; good for you. Back to Mandy Lewis, I take it, then?"
"Back farther than that. Amanda Lewis," Amanda replied evenly, putting away the lighter. She smiled ironically. "Lucky you, you never really changed yours. No dragged-out affair with the lawyers, just him telling you it's over and you moving out your plants and fuck-me pumps. It is Angie Matthews now, isn't it?"
"Angela," she replied. Pulling out a polaroid from her bag, she handed it to Amanda and continued to smoke. "This was his way of telling me it was over. I'm sure you'd agree when I say I would have preferred a nice note or something."
Examining the blurry image of the two figures and the bed, Amanda asked, "Is that who I think it is?"
"Yep," Angela said decisively, leaning against the ledge.
"Funny, you couldn't have guessed from his lyrics at all. Wonder if his wife knows," Amanda murmured. "So he left the photograph instead of the preferred note?"
"No, I took the photo. The two of them were kind enough to supply me with the pose." Angela flicked some ashes onto the ground. "Oh, and all the fuck-me pumps belong to him, I only wore them because we have the same size. The plants are mine, though."
Amanda looked up and passed back the photograph. "You're worse of than I am," she remarked.
"Don't I know it. You were with him for what, three years?" Angela roughly shoved the picture into her bag. "We were together since we were nineteen."
"We began dating at 18, year before we got married," Amanda informed her, looking down. "So we've both been invested in our respective musicians since about the same age."
"We were invested, you mean," Angela corrected, delicately smashing her finished cigarette beneath the heel of her boot. Looking back at Amanda, she asked flippantly, "D'you want to go get a coffee or something?"
"Coffee'd be nice," Amanda replied casually, smiling slightly.
Angela smiled back at her as they started to walk towards the stairs. She had known Amanda would accept. Just as she had known that Amanda would have recognized her, and not just because Angela's own image had been appearing periodically in all the major (American) music magazines for the past 8 years, next to her ex-boyfriend's. But also because, hidden beneath the long fake eyelashes she wore, Angela's hazel eyes shimmered with the same broken vulnerability she had seen in Amanda's eyes.
And Angela knew, that as instantly as she had noticed it, there was no way Amanda could have missed the connection between the two of them.
