A Perfect Romance

by Layce Gardner

  "I don't drink, remember?"

  "I'm confused," Dana said. "You don't drink or you don't not drink?"

  "Can I not have what you're not drinking?"

  "Yes," Dana said, shaking her head no. That was hard to do—say yes and shake your head no. It would have been hard sober, let alone drunk. Dana laughed. "You probably think I'm an alcoholic."

  "Are you?"

  Dana shook her head. "Most certainly I am not."

  "Okay," Ellen said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  "You don't believe me."

  "No, it's not that. I'm a little confused by what you're not and what we're not doing and what we're not talking about."

  Dana laughed and stood. She wobbled. Ellen reached up and put a hand on Dana's hip, helping to steady her. The hand on the hip thing made Dana's mind race. Well, her mind was a too drunk to exactly race, but it did perk up and do a sexy dance. "I wanna dance. Will you dance with me?"

  "Here?"

  Dana grabbed Ellen's hand and pulled her to the middle of the room. She pressed her body into Ellen's and snuggled her face into the crook of her neck. She breathed in deep. Ellen smelled like cookie dough. She let out the breath and took another deeper whiff of the vanilla scent. Yummy. First watermelon and then vanilla. Dana melted quicker than a double dip cone from Braums in the middle of July.

  She closed her eyes, leaned into Ellen's arms and swayed to the music. When she opened her eyes, she realized that she wasn't really swaying. It was the room that was swaying. Her knees crumpled and she would've Dooleyed to the floor big time, but Ellen caught her under the arms and held her up. Dana giggled. It was a good thing there was nothing under her arms but armpits.

  Ellen held Dana tight against her and Dana felt like she was on that ride at the carnival that goes round and round so fast that when the floor drops out from under your feet, you're still plastered against the wall.

  "Centipede force," Dana mumbled into Ellen's neck.

  "What?"

  Dana giggled. "I mean centrifugal force. I don't usually drink this much. I've had a bad day. A bad week. A bad life, really. A bad romance, for sure." She giggled again. "That's the name of the book I'm writing, A Bad Romance."

  "You're a writer?"

  Dana closed her eyes and rested her head on Ellen's shoulder. Ellen tilted her head and pressed her cheek to Dana's. Dana was starting to think the floor dropping out from under her feet had nothing to do with the White Russians. She whispered into Ellen's ear, "I'm working on a book. But I can't think of a plot. I suck at plots."

  Ellen whispered back into Dana's ear, "I like spooning with you."

  Dana replied, "I prefer forking myself."

  Ellen looked at her wide-eyed and Dana laughed. "Sorry. Sometimes I say socially unacceptable things. It has nothing to do with being drunk. I do it when I'm sober too."

  Ellen chuckled. "You should know that I'm not enjoying this and I'm definitely not thinking about kissing you."

  "I think you're a terrible dancer and I hate your exciting hair and beautiful brown and green eyes and the last thing on my mind is kissing you back."

  "I'm in love with my girlfriend," Ellen said.

  "I love my girlfriend too," Dana said back.

  They were both lying. And each knew the other was lying too. They looked into each other's eyes for a full thirty seconds (Dana counted and was pleased that it was a multiple of three.) This was a moment fraught with unsaid what-ifs and impossibilities that could become possibilities if either one knew the right thing to say or do.

  Each waited for the other to initiate the first kiss. Neither one wanted to be the one who first cheated on her girlfriend. If Ellen ignited the kiss, then Dana was largely blameless because who could turn down an incoming kiss when they were drunk? If Dana ignited the kiss then Ellen's reputation remained untarnished because wasn't she helping a fellow AA member and how was she to know a drunk woman was going to kiss her? Of course they knew deep down in their heart of hearts that it wasn't the initiating or the igniting of the kiss that would be hard—it was ending the kiss that would be next to impossible.

  So, by mutual, unspoken agreement arranged solely by eye contact, Dana and Ellen closed their eyes, tilted their heads a tiny bit to the right and slowly leaned in, aiming their lips in the general vicinity of the other's.

  But as fate would have it, their lips were only a fraction of a centimeter, half a heartbeat, a tiny breath apart, when a hand grabbed Dana's shoulder and spun her around.

  "I turn my back for five minutes and you go and get all cozy with this piece of white trash?" Trudy bellowed.

  Dana blinked rapidly, six, nine, twelve times. "Huh?" is all she managed to sputter.

  "I'm sorry," Ellen stammered. "We weren't…It wasn't what you think..."

  Trudy interrupted, "Yeah, I can see you weren't doing what I wasn't thinking."

  "Trudy, c'mon…" Dana sputtered.

  But Trudy pushed Dana behind her and continued, "Now why don't you get your scrawny ass on outta here before I throw it out." She pointed at the door in case Ellen didn't know where it was.

  Ellen said, "I really wasn't trying to..."

  Trudy interrupted her again. "I said, ‘Git!’" She backed Ellen up five paces, saying, "Girl, don't make me take off my wig and beat you with it."

  Ellen back pedaled her way to the door. She turned to open it and Dana called out, "Don't go!"

  The door swung closed behind Ellen. Dana looked around the bar. Everyone was turned on their bar stool watching the real-live reality TV unfold before them. "What're you all looking at?" Dana hollered. Everyone spun back around on their stools and Dana flopped into the nearest chair. She put her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. "She's gone," she sobbed, "I'll never see her again."

  Between the slobbering and the sobbing, Trudy couldn't understand a word Dana said. She plopped into the chair next to Dana. "I scared the cuss outta her and I didn't even try all that hard."

  "She's gone…"

  "Is that's what's wrong with me?" Trudy asked.

  "She could've been the love of my life," Dana said, "and she's gone."

  "Do I scare men off?"

  "And I effed it up."

  "Are men afraid of me?"

  "I let her get away."

  "Am I too masculine?"

  Dana and Trudy asked simultaneously, "What's wrong with me?"

  Dana peered at Trudy through her tears. "Why'd you do that?"

  "Do what?"

  Dana took a closer look at Trudy. Her wig was a little askew and her lipstick was smeared in the corner of her mouth. "Why'd you run her off like that?"

  "You were scratching your butt."

  "No, I wasn't."

  "Yes, you were," Trudy said. "I came out here after the meeting was over, which by the way was a big, fat bust—sober men are boring—and she had you in a bear hug and you were scratching your butt like some ol' mangy dog. So I rescued you."

  "My butt was itchy! Dangit, Trudy, you scared off the only woman I've been interested in —in my whole life maybe—and you ran her off!" Dana turned on the faucet full force. Her shoulders shook, her nose ran, the works.

  "Well, it's not my fault," Trudy huffed. She dug Dana's keys out of her front pocket, slung her purse over her shoulder and high-stepped for the door, saying, "Maybe you should put some lotion on your dry ass."

  Trudy walked out and tried to slam the door behind her, but it had one of those hydraulic arms that only let it ease shut. She dug her heels in and pushed on the door until she was out of breath, so she stopped pushing, stepped back and gave it a good kick instead.

  The door slammed shut.

  Silence fell on the room like a guillotine. Dana looked over at the jukebox and saw the old man with suspenders holding the pulled power cord in his hand. "Enough of that damned song," he muttered. He tossed the cord to the floor and moseyed back over toward his barstool.

  Dana looked at the drunks watching her. If this were one
of her beloved TV movies, this would be the close-up of the star right before the commercial break.

  "What the eff are you all looking at?" Dana yelled. The drunks grumbled and turned back around on their stools.

  Dana took a long shaky breath, cowgirled up and wiped her nose on the tail of her T-shirt. She stumbled out the door. "Trudy, hold up!"

  Trudy was backing Betty out of the parking space when Dana tripped and fell forward, sprawling over the hood of the car. Trudy slammed on the brakes and Dana's forward momentum smashed her up against the front windshield. Lying across the hood on her belly with her face mashed against the front windshield, Dana said out the side of her mouth, "Sometimes you're the bug, sometimes you're the windshield."

  Five minutes later, Dana was squeezed into the passenger seat of her own car with her feet braced on the dashboard, watching the highway blur by in the hole between her legs. She felt like that jukebox with its power cord pulled.

  "So, let me get this straight," Trudy said as she steered Betty between the yellow stripes. "Kimmy is cheating on you, so you wanted to get even by cheating on her with a woman you just met."

  "No, that's not what I was doing," Dana said in a "methinks the lady doth protest too much" type of voice. She didn't know whether she was trying to convince herself or Trudy when she added, "I wasn't trying to get even. I'm drunk and depressed and hormonal and she was cute and sweet and I like her and she has the most amazing eyes and when she touches me it feels like her fingertips are scorching my skin and, oh crap, is that what I was doing?"

  "Seemed that way to me," Trudy said.

  "You're right. I don't even know this Ellen person. I was subconsciously trying to exact revenge on Kimmy. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize I hate her. I hate Ellen for taking advantage of me while I was in a vulnerable spot. I loathe her. I loathe her hair. I loathe her sense of humor. I loathe her eyes. I loathe the way she smells so delicious. I loathe her cute ass. I loathe everything about her."

  "Good Lord," Trudy said, "you're in love."

  "Yeah, I think I am," Dana said right before she passed out.

  Three

  Dana unglued her eyes and silently screamed when the bucket of bright sunshine splashed in her face. She shivered, groaned and shrank back under the bed covers. Only then did she realize she was naked from the waist down and she had a mighty toothache. She sincerely hoped those two things were unrelated.

  Once again, she was waking up alone in bed with no idea if Kimmy had come home, slept and left for work already or if she had never come home at all. Most likely the latter.

  Asscat crawled onto Dana's ample chest and flexed his claws on her boobs, working his paws up and down like little pistons. He loved to knead kitty bread on her chest every morning. Dana grabbed him by his scruff and tossed him to the floor, growling, "Go catch another squirrel."

  Asscat's real name was Riff Raff, but Dana called him Asscat because he murdered squirrels. He didn't kill them and leave them for dead either. He ate them. He devoured them—all of them. Almost. He ate everything except their tails and buttholes. These choice remains he deposited on the welcome mat at the front door.

  Dana was always and forever digging miniature graves in her backyard and burying the asses of squirrels. That was how Asscat earned his name.

  Asscat squalled his displeasure at being heaved out of the warm bed. He padded out the door with his tail quivering high in the air and as straight as an arrow.

  Dana moaned and rubbed her eyes. Last night was such a wasted drunk. She had been hoping that she would come home late and plastered and it would make Kimmy jealous. Maybe Kimmy would think Dana had been out with another woman. Then she'd be so jealous that she would straighten up her ways and they would live happily ever after. Instead, Kimmy was none the wiser and Dana had a hangover of the third degree.

  Dana heard something strange. She sat up. It sounded like a vibrator. A muffled vibrator. A vibrator that was inside something. No, wait, it was her cell phone that was vibrating . She stuck her hand up her shirt and down her bra and under her boob and extricated the cell phone. She kept her phone there because she'd lose it otherwise. Chances were she'd always know where her left boob was and, by default, she'd know where her cell phone was. The only problem with that reasoning was that she kept forgetting that it was wedged under her boob and getting in the shower with it. She'd ruined many a phone that way.

  She squinted at the phone and saw there was a text. She didn't recognize the number.

  The message read, "How r u feeling?"

  She slid out the qwerty keyboard and typed back with her thumbs, "Who is this?"

  Several seconds passed then a new message lit up the screen. "You tried to rub my head last nite n ur gf threw me out of vfw."

  It was Ellen! Dana jumped for joy. Which was weird because she was still lying in bed, so it ended up looking more like she was bouncing up and down on her butt. She typed back, "Howd u get my #?" She hit send, then realized that her message may have sounded like she didn't want Ellen to text her. So she typed another, "But Im glad you did." She quickly sent that text.

  She only had to wait a few seconds before her screen lit up again. "Ur # was on ur shirt."

  Dana looked down at the front of her shirt. She was still wearing her orange Slave Labor shirt and, sure enough, her phone number was printed right under the logo.

  "Lol," Dana typed, "silly me."

  "Lol," Ellen typed back, "meet for lunch 2day? not a date."

  Dana mused on those last three words. She was no expert on women or dating or dating women, but Dana was enough of a woman to know that when you out-and-out say something like “It's not a date” or “I just want to be your friend” the opposite is really true. In fact, the last time Dana had told someone “I'm not trying to get in your pants,” she was in said pants within the hour.

  "Sounds good," Dana texted. "Picnic? City park? Noon?"

  "K," Ellen wrote back, "Ill bring fud."

  Dana threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. This time instead of wincing at the bright sunshine, she marveled at how the morning was perfectly reflecting her mood.

  ***

  Excerpt from Bad Romance:

  I started my own business about eight or nine years ago. After taking out a huge student loan and spending five years in college to get my English lit degree, I began writing the Great American Lesbian Romance Novel. Unfortunately, collection agencies kept calling and waking me up in the middle of the afternoon. I turned my creativity to the task of earning money. I printed up a stack of flyers and stuck them under every windshield within a fifty-mile radius of my house. The flyers were neon orange with giant black letters proclaiming the name of my new business, Slave Labor. Under the company name was my logo, a cartoonish version of a man's leg from the knee down with a ball and chain attached to the ankle. The slogan read: “We'll do almost anything for next to nothing.”

  Within two hours of passing out the flyers, a chicken farmer called. "I need you to sex my chickens," he said.

  I almost hung up on him before he explained, "All's you got to do is separate the boy chicks from the girl chicks. I'll pay you a hundred bucks for the day's work."

  I showed up at his farm in my bright orange T-shirt that Trudy had silk-screened with the words “Slave Labor.” (The irony did not escape me that a black person was helping a white person become slave labor.)

  It may have taken me five years to get my college degree, but it only took me three minutes to find out that baby chicks are cute in a cage at the Tractor Supply store, but they weren't so cute when there were two thousand of the little suckers pooping on you.

  I sexed those chicks for thirteen grueling hours. The work consisted of picking up a chick, squeezing its pooper and checking its anus for a bump. Bumps are boys, no bumps are girls. At the end of the day, I collected my hundred dollars and felt like a useful member of society.

  I had to throw away my brand new Slave Labor T-shirt, tho
ugh. Chicken shit is a stain that doesn't wash out.

  Work got better after that but not by much. I did odd jobs like walk dogs and buy belated birthday presents for wives and clean out garages and attics. I had a few regular clients, like the agoraphobe that I'd never actually seen. I just delivered the weekly groceries to her front porch. A woman's hand—it looked more like a claw with little blue worms squiggling under the pale skin—thrust money at me through the mail slot. Once every three months or so the country club paid me to wade in its pond and pick out the golf balls. If I weren't deathly afraid of the killer swans, this would have been a great job. Then there was Wanda who hired me to come in every Friday and clean her beauty shop, The Best Little Hairhouse.

  The building used to be home to a Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise. When KFC moved uptown where all the lunch hour traffic flowed, Wanda moved her beauty shop from her garage to the old KFC building. Wanda joked about her choice of buildings a lot. Like when a customer would ask her for a perm she would say, "Regular or extra-crispy?" Or when they got a manicure, she would say it was "finger lickin' good."

  She kept the front part of her shop like the old KFC with the big picture windows overlooking Main Street and using the tables as waiting areas and a manicurist station. Wanda turned the kitchen area into shampoo sinks and hair dryers and she had two hair-cutting stations—one for her and one for whoever she had hired to help out.

  The building still smelled like fried chicken and brown gravy from the twenty years of grease embedded under the baseboards. The secret recipe had steeped into the paint. Every time I left the shop after work a pack of stray dogs would follow me home.

  One Friday I showed up to do my weekly cleaning and when I walked in Bella and Donna, two seventy-year-old sisters, were sitting under hairdryers with the hoods pulled down over their curlers. The sisters were fond enough of food that their wrinkles were plumped out and they didn't look a day over sixty. I read somewhere once that fat made you look younger. Of course, it also made you look fat.

  Bella and Donna were shouting at each other with their outside voices so they could be heard over the noise of their hair dryers.