A/N: Any and all things Twilight belong to Stephenie Meyer. Everything else, from padded push-ups from Vicky's to duct tape, belongs to me.

The nice parts of having a gay best friend mean that you always have someone who will be honest with you about what you were wearing and whether the new hairstyle looks like shit. Oh, and cuddling without having to put out first. The bad parts, however, mean that if a pretty boy comes waltzing through the museum, odds are he is taking off without so much as a by your fucking leave.

I have no money.

If he had to leave me to go chase tail, the least he could have done was give me bus fare. Or something. Now I'm stuck here. My cell is dead--again--the victim of an owner who is too lazy/forgetful/stupid (choose one) to charge it. Once upon a time, weren't there pay phones? Didn't people use coins for them? I could probably bum a few coins and call Alice that way, but pay phones appear to have become extinct.

I'm stuck. And I swear this time I'm going to kill him.

If I have any luck at all, James will be satisfied with a quickie blow job and then remember that I'm here and stuck and come back for me. Of course, I know that I have no luck at all, which is why I was at a fucking art gallery on a Saturday afternoon with James in the first place instead of out getting laid or going to the movies or having an all-day sex marathon (sexathon? fuckathon? orgasmathon? Orgasmathon. I like that idea.) of my own.

I'm not helping him tonight.

By god, if James comes back and expects me to help him dress for his stupid fucking drag show later, I'm putting my foot up his ass. And that might be after I help him him with his tuck just for the extra added discomfort. Pisser. I am not helping him tonight. He can do the show his damn self without me helping with his eyelashes or combing out his wigs or waxing his fucking eyebrows. I'm taking a break from all the catty, gossipy queens and the drama and the goddamn bra-stuffing. Ugh. And if James makes me loan him my bra one more time because he forgot his for the show I'm going to kill him. I don't care if the club is all gay men and straight tourists who couldn't give a rat's ass about my tits. I refuse. I pay good money for all the stuffing I can buy. He can buy his own.

And who on Earth uses Victoria Secretion as a drag name anyway? So déclassé. He needs to change that shit if he wants better tips. And to do that pageant. Which I know he's going to ask me to dress him for.

I'm refusing. I'm done with this shit. I'm tired of being his hag. I just want a life.

I head out the front doors, plop myself on the bench that I hope is actually a bench and not yet another piece of art I'm not supposed to touch, and open my purse/lunch box. There's a damn good reason to carry a Star Wars lunch box as a purse: you can bring a sandwich along for those times when your fucking Mary abandons you at the art gallery to get laid. I'm always planning like that. Actually, maybe I just get left behind an awful lot and I hate being hungry. Too bad I didn't stick a Snickers in here or something.

I decide on a happy little squiggle before I eat, rubbing my ass all over the art/bench before digging into the fabulous goat cheese-sprouts-balsamic-vinegar-onion-bagel-sandwich (uh, no wonder I don't get laid eating this?). Fucker better be back before it's time for dessert because I did not, in fact, pack a fucking candy bar. And I'm running low on caffeine.

* *

She is the only thing I notice in the entire damn gallery. When she first got there, she was with a tall, handsome man wearing his hair in a thick blonde ponytail. He looked like he belonged in a gallery: an artist. I look like a hungover frat boy out for a day of culture, still having no idea why my mother dragged me along to this exhibit. It is O'Keeffe; everything looks like a dick or a vagina. Talk about an obvious Freudian subtext.

Most of the people wandering the gallery are dressed like my mother: stuffy slacks and blouses, or dress pants and button-downs for the men. It's a fucking shame that art in this country is reduced to a must-be-seen scene for the idle rich and upper middle class who aspire to be the idle rich. It's fucking embarrassing to have your last name be one of those up on the wall as some Platinum-Star-on-Your-Forehead-for-Giving-Us-Money homage. The girl most assuredly does not have parents with their names on the wall.

She is here with the ponytailed man and yet she isn't. Most people go through the gallery like my mother and I are : a slow and steady walk, not stopping too long or rushing past too fast at any single piece of artwork. I imagine if there is a god anywhere, he, she, or it thinks we look like fucking ants in an ant farm in our single line maintaining the same pace. Then you see her, criss-crossing across the gallery, bumping in and out of the line and wrecking the traffic pattern.

I am surprised a Muffy or a Janet or a Hildegard hasn't called for security to escort her out.

She passes by the vagina flowers as if they aren't there, but creates such a traffic jam at one of the desert paintings that the ant line re-routes around her. The patrons of the arts skip the entire painting because a silly girl would have ruined the momentum of the ever-trudging line. I stifle a chuckle as I think of that Pixar film with the ants where they start yelling when a gap appears in the line. My mother elbows me and gives me that “shut the hell up in public” look. I roll my eyes, but continue pretending to be an art-appreciating insect.

After a while, I realize she is still flitting back and forth across the gallery fucking with the ants, but the ponytailed man is nowhere to be seen. I'm not sure that she noticed at first, so caught up was she in the art she found worth looking at, but I can tell when she realizes he either isn't there, or hasn't returned as expected. Her arms cross in front of her chest, and her eyebrows furrow together, and her teeth bite into her lower lip so hard I half-expect her to start bleeding all over the place. Until she crosses her arms, I don't notice that she isn't even carrying a purse. Instead, she's carrying a fucking Star Wars X-wing lunch box. Is she for real? People sell that shit on eBay to collectors to put on bookshelves and dust regularly, and she's using it as a purse.

She must have come to some decision then, because I watch her huff and then stalk off toward the exit, lunch box swinging at her side. It is at this very moment when I watch the glass inner doors swing shut behind her that I come to my own decision. I leave the ants—and my mother—and follow her.

# # #

She hasn't gone far. I see her sitting on a bench donated by some other patron who wanted their name on a plaque on a bench instead of a plaque on a wall. She is doing the weirdest dance-type thing I've ever seen, shaking her ass all over the seat like she was polishing it for the gallery. She sets the lunch box/purse down next to her and opens it, and I watch for her to reach for a cell phone to call the ponytailed friend but she doesn't. No, she pulls out a motherfucking sandwich and starts eating it. A sandwich. In a metal lunch box. At the gallery.

There is no way I am going to be able to hold it back, so I throw my head back and laugh my ass off, the sound echoing off the brick buildings surrounding the gallery. I probably should care that she can hear me, but I really don't mind. I have to talk to her.

* *

Shit. Busted.

I saw him inside a few minutes ago, the only break in the near-uniform parade of rich old people, rich middle-aged people, and just-plain-rich people looking at the big fucking flowers.

He'd looked bored.

I could tell right away he was there with mommy, following her along, too used to being a lamb to break off from the sheep, no matter how hard his hipster outfit screamed that he wanted to be different. I'd sort of wanted to tell him that he could dress just like the rest of them, and really being different was all in how you looked at things, not in how you dressed, but I wasn't entirely sure he would be receptive to that, seeing as he was so afraid of mommy he wouldn't even change his pace in the line. I could tell, watching him when I wasn't looking at a painting, when he liked something, because his eyes would light up. And when he was bored, he'd sort of pinch the bridge of his nose like he was Samantha on Bewitched and trying hard not to wiggle his nose and wish all these stuck-up motherfuckers away so he could move right along past it.

Still, he was out here now, and I knew his place in the Bataan Death March of art appreciation couldn't have reached the end of the exhibit, so I was going to have to give him credit for trying. I know he can see me looking at him, but he's too afraid to just come on over and say hello and maybe rub his ass all over this art/bench. Maybe it's his granny's name on the plaque behind me. Shit, that would be hilarious, and almost worth getting left behind today.

I decide to give him a break today. Maybe walking out here was his first tiny baby step, and he's afraid to toddle across the room because he doesn't want to end up on his ass.

“Hey! Rich kid! You like goat cheese?”

He's looking confused. Jesus Tapdancing Christ, like there was anyone else under the age of fifty around here? Just me, him--well, James was off fucking some pretty boy's mouth right now in all likelihood--so just me and him. He and I. Shit, I can't ever remember. Just two young people. What was I saying?

Oh, right. I'm inviting him to share my sandwich and he's almost here now.

“What did you ask?”

“I asked if you liked goat cheese. I'm willing to share my fucking fantabulous sandwich with you on one condition.”

“A condition?” He cocks one eyebrow at me and sort of smiles using one side of his mouth more than the other. How fucking cute is that?

“Well, sort of two conditions. One is that you can help me get a Snickers bar. We can share it, but I totally didn't pack any dessert today.”

“I can manage a candy bar, I think. What's the other condition?”

“Rich kid, hello? Not just any candy bar. A Snickers. Packed with peanuts and shit. I might allow you to get me a Snickers Almond which we all know is really just a Mars Bar, but it has to say Snickers.”

“Snickers it is,” he agrees. “What's the other condition?”

“I need a way to get home. You can loan me a cell phone or call your driver for me because I know you have one or whatever. I just don't want to sit here all damn day.”

“You have plans?”

Oh my fucking god, he's so adorable. Do I have plans? Yes, I have plans. I have plans to take a fucking nap and maybe read a few more pages of Chaucer because I will finish that shit one of these days. I still feel guilty about cheating and reading those stupid quickie notes freshman year.

“Hmm,” I answer. “I'm not sure. Do you have plans?”

He isn't answering, but instead, turns and heads back into the gallery. I roll my eyes and shake my head. Never fails. He could have at least let me use his phone to call Alice for a ride. I'm not that fucking weird, am I?

I look down. Okay, so maybe the hems of my jeans are a little bit ratty. It's not my fault I have short legs and they drag on the damn pavement. My Chucks are a little bit dirty, but again, not my fault. It totally sucks trying to remember to bring a spare pair of shoes to the fucking laundromat to wash them. My t-shirt for once doesn't have anything vulgar or “untoward” on it. Shit. It's a Kafka shirt. From Prague. That's culture, isn't it? Fucking Kafka, people. And my hoodie is freshly washed. I just did laundry last night. It looks fine and smells fine. Shit, even my hair is pretty generic this month. It's a nice, plain wine color. I didn't highlight it or dye it black with streaks or anything.

Fuck me. James still isn't back. Rich kid is gone. And I'm bored. If my phone was charged, at least I could have gone online or listened to music. As it is, I have nothing to do. And my nap is not going to get fucked with if I have anything to say about it.

* *

I go back in, ask my mother if she minds me leaving her there with her friend Mindy or Jill or what-the-fuck-ever and make my way back outside to see her, the Crazy Sandwich Girl, asleep on the bench. She's wrapped her arms around her lunch box and is using it as a pillow and is taking a nap. Was I seriously gone that long? The conversation had been so short my mother hadn't even bothered to ask me where I was going.

She's drooling a bit on her sleeve, and I'm wondering if I should wake her up or just sit down next to her. I can't imagine being so damn tired I'd sleep on a bench in front of a gallery, but I have no idea what her circumstances might be. Still, she mentioned candy and a ride, not being tired, so I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that food and transportation are higher priorities. She said she had goat cheese, so I doubt that she's starving or homeless. Even if she looks like she is. But how do I wake her up when I don't even know her name?

I debate any number of ways to wake her, starting with “Hey, you!” and ending with just rolling her onto her back and fucking her on the bench, but I'm pretty sure that this girl would give me a kick in the balls if she even knew I'd thought it, much less attempted it. I decide on the tried-but-true arm shaking, and she responds by grumbling in her sleep and smacking my hand away. I laugh and shake her a bit harder, and she finally rolls to her side, shading her eyes with her hand as she looks at me.

“Oh. Hey, Rich Kid. You're back.”

Apparently she'd thought I'd abandoned her.

“Yes, I just had to leave my mother in the capable hands of her ladies who lunch friends. Can I drive you wherever you need to go?”

She smiles then, as if I'm Prince Fucking Charming here on my white steed to whisk her off into the bloody sunset, and sits up.

“Yes, you certainly can. Let's start with the Snickers bar and go from there. Do you feel favorably about coffee in large quantities?” she's asking.

I stand and offer her my hand, a gallant move I've only ever seen in movies and sure as shit never attempted myself. It makes me ecstatic when she accepts it, and we walk off to the stupid silver Volvo my parents bought me for “safety reasons.” I'm sure she's going to make snide comments about it, and I find that I'm looking forward to it. And to having my first Snickers in god only knows how long apparently with large quantities of coffee.