“Do you think Joan Jett has her nipples pierced?”
What the fuck.
“What?” Diane looks over at Roxy, laying next to her on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. The pair had been laying on Diane’s bed for at least an hour. Roxy had just finished a joint.
“Joan Jett. You think she has her nipples pierced?” Roxy asks, voice smothered in stoner-level inquisition. Which, Diane supposes, wasn’t too out there for someone who had just smoked. Oh, right. She can smoke. Diane picks up her juul from her nightstand, right next to her wood paneled record player.
“I don’t think so.” Diane says and takes one, two, three hits of her juul and tosses it to the side once again with a huff. She lets her back fall against the headboard.
Roxy and Diane had been friends for years. Well, acquaintances for years. Within the last few months they had found themselves drawn to each other, and as of now they’re best friends. Neither are sure how it had happened, or who had made the first move to become closer, but Diane wasn’t going to question it. Sometimes good things didn’t need to be explained.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” Diane says, “your obsession with Joan Jett, or your fucking weed habit. Smells like lesbian desperation.” Roxy turned her head to Diane, a drowsy grin stretching her across cheeks. She laughs like a broken vacuum and twice as loud.
The record playing next to Diane’s bed skips.
“You’re one to talk.” Roxy drawls out once she calms down. She gestures to Diane’s complete Bowie record collection, Hunky Dory currently out of it’s sleeve.
Diane snorts, because yeah, she has a point. Roxy’s smile grows wider, pleased with itself, and swings an arm around her with a wshumph.
“Listen, Joan Jett is sixty years old, and you’d still fuck her. Take it down a notch, Rox.” Roxy erupts into a fit of giggles.
“Ayo, don’t call me out like that!” She barks between laughs, hitting her friend playfully.
Something pops into Diane’s head. An idea.
“What if we got your nipples pierced?” She looks down at Roxy, who appears to be in deep thought, considering this idea. Diane knows that she was into body mods. She also knew a place that, while they swore up and down that they carded, didn’t.
“Hmm.” Roxy wiggles her body to be closer to Diane, pondering. “Yes.”
One of Diane’s eyebrows arch in moderate surprise. “Yeah?” Roxy nods her head.
“Well,” Diane says, “shit.” A light chuckle lacing her voice. She didn’t really expect a yes. But. Well. It’d be fun, right? “Let me call Bella, and we can go to the place I got tattooed.”
“Well,” Diane says, “you need two people. One to hold your head, and one to hold your hand. Plus, Bella’s cool.”
Roxy makes a noise of approval and Diane gets up from the bed in pursuit of her mission. The cold air of her room hits her and she immediately finds herself missing Roxy’s warmth. She shakes the feeling off and steps into the bathroom. Diane picks up her phone from where it was charging, next to her Justin Bieber toothbrush (courtesy of Roxy). She dials up Ziggy, or xoxo666Bells. The fuck kinda contact name, she thinks, looking at her phone in disappointment.
“Helloooooooooooooo”, Bella trills at the other end of the line.
“Hey Bells,” Diane says, rolling her eyes. “do you want to come to St. Mark’s with me n’ Roxy?”
“Shit, is baby getting her first tattoo?” Bella laughs some more, and apparently it’s contagious, because now Diane has to stifle a few chuckles of her own. Ziggy, or Zoe, her actual name, had always had an infectious laugh since the two of them were kids.
“Not exactly.” Diane says, leaning against the sink. “Nipple piercings. Figured she would want a friend or two. You still game?”
“Of course! Anything for our kinky king.” Bella says. "I'll be by your place in five, 'kay?'' Diane grunts in approval, and is met with dead air. Well. That settles that.
Diane slips her phone into the front pocket of her jeans and leans against the sink, inspecting her make up in the mirror. Pleased with her eyeliner, she moves to exit the bathroom. But, oh.
Roxy is sitting up on her bed, changing the record on the record player with immense care. Diane squints her eyes at the sleeve in Roxy’s hand and is able to make out The Velvet Underground. She leans against the door frame and appreciates Roxy’s toned back, doing her best to remember every divot and curve. Boxing had definitely done her well, she thought. It's easy to admire her in her tank-top-boxer ensemble. She wants to remember this, how this moment feels, how the low setting of the ceiling light makes everything look... special, she decides. Definitely special.
She glides to her closet to grab a belt, sated with her observance. “Bella’s comin’ soon, so.” She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to. Roxy is shimmying off the bed and pulling her thick chenille sweater over her translucent white tank top.
Roxy’s cargo pants interrupt the Velvet Underground, her shimmies causing a chorus of their own. Thwump thwump thwump.
Diane’s O-ring belt looks good, something she’s able to appraise in the mirror of her closet. But then again, when doesn’t it? If it was good enough for Sid Vicious, it was good enough for her. Well, maybe not the domestic abuse and heroin, she thinks after a moment.
“I really like your room.” Roxy says.
Diane is torn from her inner monologue and looks around the room. Her walls are covered in posters and bookshelves, purple paint peeking out here and there. It was a timeline of years of growing into herself, and she glowed anytime someone complimented her decor. Especially the David Bowie posters.
“I want bark thins.” says Roxy, suddenly, detracting from Diane’s thoughts once again.
“Um.” Diane thinks for a moment on how to distract the stoned bitch in her room that looks to have enough energy to explode. “How about chocolate milk?”
Roxy lights up and shakes her head enthusiastically. Diane’s eyebrows raise, but she shakes it off. She gestures for Roxy to follow her out of her room. Once again, her pants crumple noisily as she moves. Thwump thwump.
Her apartment - well, her family’s apartment - was kinda big for the area, she supposed. All it did was give her more space to take up. To hide away in, when she needed to. Roxy, unlike many of her friends, liked to stay close to her instead of wandering around her home. It made her feel things. Warm sunlight, the color yellow, opening a birthday present: love.
She pulls open the fridge and pulls out a bottle of chocolate milk, easily tossing it behind her to Roxy. Diane grabs herself some water from the sink. If she strains just enough she can make out what Lou Reed is saying in the other room.
Diane seats herself next to Roxy at the counter. Roxy’s shoulder bumps against hers. She’s humming along to the song in the background. She takes a sip of her water. It’s nice.
And then the front door opens.
“Sweet birthday baby!”
“Bells, I swear,” Diane says, “if you mention Russian Doll one more time I’m gonna throw myself out the fucking window.” Fondness bleeds through her words.
“And howdy to you too, Diane.” Bella says playfully. She walks into the kitchen, a huge grin spread across her features. She pecks Roxy on the forehead and hops onto the counter.
Out of the three of them, Bella’s taste in fashion was the most. Sporadic. She was wearing an orange hat, lime-green jeans, a fishnet undershirt, a striped tank, and a baggy leopard jacket. Compared to Diane’s grungy, alternative style or Roxy’s streetwear punk mix, Bella’s outfits could only be defined as GoodWill roulette.
Roxy weaves her fingers into Bella’s lackadaisically. “I’m getting pierced.” She says. “It’s gonna be super fun.” Roxy grins up at her. Bella just laughs and smiles encouragingly.
Another wonderful idea pops into Diane’s thoughts.
“I’ll get my weed pen from my room, and then we can go.” Diane says, rolling her eyes at the cheering of her friends. “Fucking addicts.” She mutters as she hops of the stool and heads to her room.