Rebuilding Sabrina, part 9

Sabrina opened the door and let me in.
Her apartment smelled of smoke, and she was sucking happily on a Marlboro.
“How are you?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Fine. The manifestation is working like a wonder.”
“Really?” I asked.
She turned to me. “Do you notice anything new?”
“Nothing much, no,” I lied. She was wearing grey sweatpaints and a white tank top, her bleached blond hair falling loosely around her face. She had put on a little make up, underscoring her eyes. She was barefoot, her toenails painted a bright red.
My eyes lingered on her boobs. Because of her usual baggy sweatshirts and blouses, I had forgotten how nicely stacked my friend was.

We went into the parlor. The place smelled of stale smoke and there was a faint mist of burned tobacco. Sabrina had already arranged candles and incense sticks, and the curtains were drawn. Through the half-open door I peeked in her bedroom. The bed was unmade, and the wardrobe door was open.
“What would you like to work on, this time?” I asked her.
She sighed, and squashed the spent butt in an ashtray I had never seen before. There had been some changes in the house, too. It was a little less cold and a bit messier, in a way I could not exactly put my finger on.

“I’ve been thinking about Samantha,” she said.
Her sister. The one that had been screwing her boyfriend Joe. “How long since you last called her?”
She shook her head, “Too long.”
“I’ll get us something to drink,” I said. “Then you tell me everything.”
The kitchen was in disarray. There were dirty plates in the kitchen sink. A coffee cup was filled with ash and cigarette butts.
I checked the level of the vodka in the refrigerator. Down to maybe a third. Sabrina seemed to like her Absolut. Something smelled long dead in the refrigerator. Wriggling my nose, I poured two big glasses of orange juice, and dropped the MDA in Sabrina’s glass. After long deliberation, I had decided that 80 milligrams would do her good anyway.
I went back to the couch and sat by her side.
“Here, vitamins and hydration before we start,” I said.
She took a sip.
“What happened exactly? With Joe and Samantha?”
She grunted. “She screwed Joe.”
Nice.
I remembered Joe, that Sabrina had been dating about ten years before. Big guy, rough, pretty jacked. The sort that spends long hours in the gym. Not exactly an intellectual, he listened to country music and enjoyed outdoor activities. Sabrina had had a hard time keeping up with him, and I remember that as her “health food, exercise and hiking” period.
In line with Sabrina’s tastes in men, Joe was a cunt and he had been obviously two-timing Sabrina with anything that breathed and had tits, and Samantha had admittedly quite a nice pair.
“It was Samantha’s birthday,” Sabrina said. She took a drag from the cigarette, and another sip of orange juice. “She had a party in a place that’s no longer there, a dance club and bar, on Lake Parnell.”
Almost a perfect copy of Sabrina, but with dark hair, Samantha was five years younger than her sister, and a little more relaxed. She had studied art and the last time I heard about her she worked as a graphical designer for a small marketing firm. Just like her sister she was very pretty and absolutely starved for attention, and it was no surprise she had spread her legs to a smooth bastard like Joe.
“It was there that I found out,” Sabrina said, “about them.” Her smoking had become more nervous, more intense. “Everybody was having a good time, the place was packed. I went out for a breath of fresh air, and…”
“You caught them together.”
She nodded. “They were outside, on the balcony overlooking the lake. Behind a cherry tree. Joe was holding Samantha up by her hips, her back to the wall, and he was—”
“He was fucking her senseless.”
Sabrina gave me a hard look.
“What did you do?” I asked.
She snorted, and took another sip. Her lips left a lipstick mark on the rim of the glass.
“I started shouting,” she said. “I was so furious. I think I attacked them. Her. Joe would never had done something like that, had not Samantha been all over him since day one.”
I honestly doubted it, but that was beside the point.
“I could have forgiven him,” she said. “But not her. Never her. That slut!” she hissed, furious.
She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, and blew smoke out with force.
“I want to do something about it,” she said.
“You want to reconcile yourself with your sister—”
She shook her head. “I want this hanger and pain to go. I frankly do not give a fuck about that slut.”
I stared at her, suppressing a satisfied grin. My cure was working fine. I checked the watch. We had about three quarters of an hour before the MDA kicked in.
“OK, I think I know how we can go about this,” I said.
She nodded. She drained her juice, and then she took her lighter out and started lighting candles and joss sticks.
I turned the lights out.
The she sat on the couch, and I sat by her side.
“Ready?” I asked her.
I sure was.