The Friends

Val sat beside Aanya on her bed, arm around her, listening to her sob. It had been a long night.

When her face wasn’t swollen and here eyes weren’t bloodshot from crying, Aanya was a pretty woman. Long dark hair, smooth brown skin, and almost amber eyes, all gifts of her Indian heritage. Her long slim legs, narrow waist, and small perky breasts, a point of pride given the effort needed to maintain them, particularly given her work as a writer. Typing didn’t do much to tone abs. However, at the moment, they were concealed beneath her coziest pyjamas. “I don’t want to go,” she said between sniffles. “I’ll be miserable the whole time.”

Val held back a sigh. Aanya’s boyfriend had gotten caught cheating, badly. Months of texts with multiple other women, all exposed just days before the dream vacation Aanya had won.

In her role as best friend, Val bit back every “I told you so,” that came to mind.

She had no time for men. In her experience, they were all terrible. At best, they were selfish chauvinists, and her partners had not been the best of them. She had sworn off dating ages ago and been happier for it. An industrial strength vibrator and a smutty movie were a reliable and satisfying replacement for a warm cock. She longed on occasion for companionship, and wished she’d been born a lesbian so she could write men out of her life completely. Instead, she was the woman her broken hearted friends came to when their boys inevitably showed their true colors. “Would you rather be miserable here, or miserable on a beach with a margarita?” she asked.

“Would you come with me?” sniffled Aanya.

“Of course, I’ll come with you,” Val had to contain her giddiness at the offer. She would go to help her best friend get over a bad breakup, if she happened to soak up a lot of rum and sun in the process, that wasn’t so bad. “I don’t have any jobs coming up I can’t put off for a couple of weeks, and I could use a break.”

“I’ll be terrible company,” confesses Aanya.

“And I’ll be intolerably delightful,” claimed Val. She stood and planted her fists on her hips, like Peter Pan. It was a look she cultivated. A no-nonsense pixie cut, tomboy features, strong hands from her work as a handyman, and paint-stained denim helped to make her clients take her seriously, and ward away most men. It also made her look adorable when she grinned. “I’ll make you have a good time whether you like it or not. No better place than the far side of a planet to get over that shithead.”

Mentioning the shithead had been a mistake. A new wave of tears burst forth.

It was going to be a long trip.