She gets things because she looks right. The peppermint ice cream is pale pink in the candlelight and the waiter brings her extra cherries, but Georgia wants a halter top and black cat-eyes like the girls at the bar have. Wet, red lipstick. A French cut bikini. Sandals with straps that snake all the way up to the knee. Her dad is sitting with her, listening to her stories, but his eyes dart over to the bar from time to time. He always comes back, though, and calls Georgia his little swinger. His baby. His Bond girl.
It’s nice that her mother decided to stay behind with her migraine so that Georgia could be her dad’s date.
Bond girl. Georgia wants a big machine gun for spraying the bad guys and saving the day. She won’t ever let go of it. She’ll keep it in her perfect closet next to all the handbags and jewelry. Right up against the diamonds. And when her mom can’t get dressed because nothing makes her happy anymore, can’t even get out of bed, Georgia will hand her the gun and let her have a turn.
First published in Hypertrophic Literary, Spring 2017
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