by Jody Gehrman
“Difficult is okay! It’s good.” He laughs. “Where’s the fun in easy?”
I reach out and subtly turn the vents so the hot air stops blasting my face. He notices and turns the heat down a couple notches. I know this is the moment when I should ask him in. I just can’t bring myself to do it.
“Well, thanks for dinner. It was lovely.” I grope for the door handle, can’t find it, have to turn away from him to locate the cool metal at last. I’m inept, adolescent, clumsy. The thought of enduring night after night of this tedious social ritual makes me so tired I want to fling myself under a bus.
“May I walk you to the door?”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I mumble. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” he says as I open the door.
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Perhaps next time we can go to a movie. Something exciting, where the characters kill each other and get away with it.”
I’m out on the sidewalk now. The cold air fills my lungs. It tastes fresh, searing. “Sure. That sounds right up my alley.”
While Raul lingers in his SUV, I hurry toward my front door, hands stuffed into my coat pockets for warmth. I turn and wave when I get my key into the lock. The Range Rover eases away from the curb slowly, regretfully.
Just before I shut my door, I glance back down the street, looking for the silver Honda. It’s gone.
SAM
After dropping you at your place in that tank of his, Raul goes to The Woods. It’s a fitting destination for this douche. A college bar at the edge of town with half-price drinks and wet T-shirt contests—just the place for a man with his hair. I’m sure you’ve heard of it, but I’m willing to bet you’ve never darkened their doorway.
Tonight, the rickety marquee reads APOCALIPSTICKS LIVE! TWO DOLLAR SHOTS! LADIES HALF PRICE!!! As if all those exclamation points will make up for the ’70s brick exterior and the vomit-scented, cracking-vinyl booths.
I pull up in my Honda and park two cars down from Raul. As I pass his Range Rover, I can’t help marveling at how much some guys will spend to overcompensate. Nothing screams “tiny dick” like a 340-horsepower engine wrapped in glossy, never-been-dirty black.
He didn’t even get a good-night kiss. Thank god. Tonight I know you’re making progress. You refused to be seduced by his heated leather seats, the torque of his engine, the boy-band, messed-up hair. You’re over that shit. Already I can sense you preparing a place in your heart—a hot, moist place—just for me.
There’s a short line at the door. Raul’s right in front of me. He stands behind a gaggle of girls all digging through their purses for their IDs. They reek of cloying, sweet perfume and wear so much eye makeup they look like drag queens. I watch as Raul’s gaze bounces from one pair of tits to the next.
It catches me off guard when I hear my name singsonged at top volume. “Sam Grist! Oh my god, what are you doing here?”
It’s Cleavage. As usual, she’s working the push-up bra, putting the girls on display in a tight, pink tank beneath a black leather jacket. Her heels are so stacked she’s almost eye-level with me. Her friends check me out. They wear identical supercilious expressions, their mouths tight as puckered assholes. Their gazes sweep over me as if they are a quartet of imperious queens. Fuck them and their Victoria’s Secret body glitter. Jesus, like I’d bother to ride them if they paid me.
“What’s up, Jess?”
“I didn’t even think you went to bars.” Her glossy lips spread into a candy-colored smile.
I give her a dismissive look. Just because I prefer my own company over anyone but yours, that doesn’t make me a misanthrope. I almost feel sorry for this girl; she infuriates me every time she opens her mouth, and she has no idea.
Raul’s staring at me. He’s wondering why this hot little chica’s salivating over me when he’s the one with all the horsepower. I can’t help shooting him a sideways glance. When you’ve got it, you’ve got it, buddy. The stupid motherfucker just had dinner with you, the most glorious creature on the planet, and he wasted every minute of it talking about himself. He deserves so much more loathing than I can spare right now.
The bouncer’s got his stamp out, waiting for Cleavage’s crew to get on with it already and produce some fake ID. They do. The guy’s too tired and cynical to study their pictures for more than a second beneath the glare of his flashlight. He’s built like a bar of soap—a nose that’s been broken in a couple places, a receding hairline he remedies by buzzing the whole thing military-short. I try to imagine what it must be like standing at this door, watching an endless parade of tarted-up jailbait and drunk frat boys stream past year after year. When he stamps my hand, I try to catch his eye.
“Thanks, man.” I want to tell him I’m not the usual brand of asshole he ushers through these doors. That he and I are on the same team—the one that would love to throw a Molotov cocktail through these blacked-out windows and rid the planet of these bubbly clubbers for good.
His dead-eyed stare goes right through me.
Inside, the air is thick with sweet perfume. Why do girls want to smell like fruit and flowers? The last thing I want to fuck is a strawberry. Guess the half-price ladies’ night is working, because the place is packed with chicks. Could be the band, too. Apocalipsticks seems to be one of those girl bands modeled after The Bangles or The Go-Go’s. The lead singer’s tall, with knee socks under her short, pleated skirt. Very Catholic-schoolgirl, though the facial piercings and the tats add a layer of irony to the look. Behind her is an overweight, sour-faced bass player, a lead guitarist who looks like Courtney Love, and a tiny drummer from the Manic Pixie Dream Girl mold. They’re in the middle of a Led Zeppelin cover, “The Rain Song.” Their sound’s a little too sugary, even when they’re doing Zeppelin, and the drummer must be snorting Adderall—she keeps rushing it—but they’re not bad for Blackwood on a Thursday night.
I watch as Raul orders a pint of beer and sips it, his back against the bar. The fifty bucks I gave Vivienne means I don’t have money for overpriced whiskey, so I grab an abandoned glass from one of the counters lining the walls and hold it in my hand, trying to fit in.
As soon as Cleavage has done a round of shots with her girls, she comes bouncing over, bright-eyed and half-naked. She’s shed her leather jacket, and now her tanned, gym-toned shoulders reflect the red of the neon Coors sign. She smells of tequila and spearmint.
“Big night on the town, huh?” She grins.
“Not really.” I shrug and watch the band. There it is again, the implication that I’m some kind of mouth-breathing psycho who never leaves his mother’s basement. “Just felt like having a drink.”
She wrinkles her nose at my glass. “What’s that?”
I look down and notice, too late, what she’s staring at. The half-empty glass I grabbed has a perfect semi-circle of bright red lipstick on the rim.
Cleavage gets in my face. “Are you wearing makeup?”
“Fuck off.” I push her away without thinking. I can’t tolerate people invading my space.
She almost topples over backward in her fuck-me stilettos. I grab her arm and pull her upright before she crashes to the floor. The last thing I want is a scene.
“Asshole,” she huffs, pushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “What’s your problem? Did I hit a nerve?”
“Sorry. Instinct.”
She tilts her head to the side, the caramel hair swinging off her shoulder. Everything about her is smooth and shiny—her hair, her skin, her glossy, pink mouth.
“What’s the deal with you, anyway?” she demands.
“The deal?”
She shrugs, impatient. “I can’t figure you out.”
“Why would you need to?”
“I don’t need to.” She licks her lips. “I want to.”
I catch sight of Raul asking a girl to dance. She’s a total BAG. Big And Grateful. Easy prey. Perfect for a blow job in the parking lot. Her wide ass swings side to side like a pendulum as she leads him
onto the dance floor. He watches it with total concentration.
Jess, who’s not stupid even though she tries to be, follows my gaze. “You know that guy?”
“No. You?”
She looks at her phone, shoves it back in her pocket. “Friend of mine went out with him. He comes here a lot.”
“Yeah? How often?”
“Dunno. Most the times I’ve come here he’s hanging around.” A look of understanding lights up her face. “Wait, are you gay?”
I fix her with a tired frown. She laughs.
“I’m sorry, you’re just mysterious.”
“Man of Mystery,” I say. “That’s me.”
I turn my attention back to Raul. He’s not worthy of you, Kate. Not even close. One way or another, I’m going to make sure you realize that.
KATE
It’s the weekend before Halloween, I haven’t carved my pumpkins, and Zoe’s nagging me to go out with Raul again. He’s texted me three times. He’s more eager than I expected, given our limp chemistry. Probably my standoffish attitude only fuels his enthusiasm. I’m playing hard-to-get without trying. The crazy thing is, indifference only really works when it’s authentic. I’ve played this game in the past when I really did care, and it always backfired. Now that I’m truly uninterested, he can’t wait to see me.
It’s a mystery, my immunity to his charms. Our first date wasn’t disastrous. So why can’t I whip up any desire for a repeat performance?
I would probably just ignore his texts and let it fade into nothing, but Zoe’s fixated on her fantasy that we belong together—no, not fixated, obsessed. She talks about him so much I’m pretty sure she’s harboring her own secret crush.
She stands at her kitchen counter, spooning lemon custard into tiny pastry shells. She’s making lemon tarts. Like everything Zoe touches, they’re tiny works of art. The custard gleams a rich, glossy yellow, and the pastry shells look light enough to float away.
“I don’t get what’s wrong with him,” she says, licking filling from her fingers.
“Nothing’s wrong with him,” I repeat for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Then why won’t you give him a chance?”
I sigh. “There’s no spark.”
“Hmm…” She hands me a spoon coated in custard.
I lick obediently. Lemon-sugar creaminess explodes on my tongue. I cup my hand over my mouth and moan.
She grins wickedly. “I know, right?”
“Unbelievable.” I put the whole spoon in my mouth and suck.
“Here’s the thing, though.” I can tell by her stern tone she’s about to unleash a Zoe-ism—some proclamation about my life I definitely don’t want to hear. “Maybe all those years with Pablo warped your idea of ‘normal.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I can’t help sounding a little hurt.
“Don’t take it the wrong way. You guys fought all the time, though. I know the sex was good, but maybe now you confuse turbulent with sexual.”
“Good sex is turbulent.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Sure, okay, but you don’t have to be at each other’s throats to have chemistry. In the long run, that’s not sustainable.”
“We were together for ten years,” I remind her.
“Before he started banging his child-bride.”
“Ouch.”
She slides the tray into the oven and sits beside me in the breakfast nook, taking my hand. “I’m not trying to diminish what you had—”
“Sure sounds like it.”
“I just want you to be contento.” Zoe and I spent a summer in Madrid together. Ever since, when we want to say we’re sorry, we drag out our clumsy Spanish. She waits until I meet her eye. “Give Raul one more chance. If there’s still no attraction, I’ll never mention him again.”
I hold her gaze. “Feels like you’re trying to pack me off into domestic bliss.”
“Not at all.”
“I don’t want kids. There’s no big rush to find someone.”
“I know.” She squeezes my fingers. “I get that. Raul has two kids. He doesn’t want more.”
“What?” I can’t believe he never mentioned that.
“Not kids, really. They’re in college. Twin girls.”
“Weird he never said anything about them.”
“Maybe he thought you’d find it repugnant.” She releases my hand and strokes her belly. “Do you?”
“No.” I think about it a moment. “Not at all. College-age girls are perfect. Out of the house. Old enough to have brains, though judging by some of my students you wouldn’t think so. Raul must have had them when he was twelve.”
“Pretty young. Twenty?”
“How do you know so much about him?” I ask.
She twirls a strand of her dark hair. “Jealous?”
“Shut up!”
My phone buzzes on the kitchen table. She grabs it and sees the caller: Raul.
“Answer,” she orders, thrusting my phone at me.
“I’ll call him back.”
“Do it now. I know you!” She gives me a pleading look. “One more date, then I’ll never ever say ‘Raul’ again.”
“Promise?”
“Promise!”
I answer my phone.
* * *
“Would you like a program?” The girl at the door to the Blackwood Center for Performing Arts beams at us like she’s auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. Theater majors. They wander into class bursting with big dreams, blinding smiles, and abysmal punctuation. You’d think learning to say lines with the proper pauses embedded would teach you about commas and periods, if nothing else. I already know this one would pile on the exclamation marks, layer them in exuberant, random splashes like cheap perfume over body odor.
“Sure. Thanks.” I take a program and step into the auditorium, silently cursing Zoe. Why did she have to insist on this second date? I was ready to let my acquaintance with Raul simmer quietly into nothing. My resolve to end the night as soon as possible throbs in time with my headache.
I chose the opening night of Oleanna because I hoped to kill two birds with one stone. Finn Hobbs, the director, happens to be on my tenure committee. I want to believe showing my face here will ease the constipated frown he always wears in my presence, as if the very sight of me interferes with his digestion.
It’s an optimistic (read: hopeless) plan, but I can dream.
My irritation ratchets up another notch when I glance over my shoulder and catch Raul ogling the usher. As he takes his program, his eyes cast down a moment, landing on the place where her rhinestone necklace disappears into her blouse. He must sense my disapproving gaze because he pockets the program and meets my eye like a scolded child.
Great. Now I’m the jealous shrew. Not a role I savor.
I had way too much of that during my decade with Pablo.
As I turn back around and search for our seats, fury rises inside me like a geyser. My anger is totally out of proportion to the crime—he just glanced at the girl. Jesus, I haven’t even kissed him. Knowing my reaction’s irrational only makes it worse. Rage you have a right to can be cleansing. Rage you have no claim to is just cheap and crazy.
Suddenly the black Eileen Fisher dress I chose for its understated elegance seems menopausal. The boots I always wear because they’re both comfortable and chic strike me as orthopedic. God, I want to go home. Now. Not in two hours, certainly not in three—this minute.
I feel Raul’s hand on my elbow. “Kate. You are okay, yes?”
“Yes, of course.” It comes out prim. I’m a wretched liar.
He puts his hand on the small of my back. “You look very beautiful tonight.”
“Ah, here we are. Good seats, right?” I fold myself into the velvet chair, avoiding his eye. If he thinks he can objectify girls his daughters’ age and then buy me off with a generic compliment, he can go fuck himself. Seriously. I may be a hair’s breadth away from forty, but I’m not desperate. Not yet.<
br />
He turns his attention to the program. “So, do you like this David Mamet?” He mispronounces the name, rhymes it with ballet.
A mean sliver of satisfaction slices through me. I may not have tits that defy gravity, but I know the iconic American playwrights. Jesus, is this what it’s come to? Dredging up feelings of superiority to combat girls with beautiful skin and shiny hair? It’s like fighting off feral beasts with a limp dishrag. I remember how much I pitied women like me ten years ago, tenured professors who interviewed me with pinched, sour expressions, like I gave off an offensive odor.
“Mamet’s a little on the misogynist side of the spectrum, but I appreciate his humor. You?” I gaze at him expectantly. I’m being mean, asking him to expose his ignorance. So what? Let him feel inadequate, see if he likes it.
He widens his eyes. One thing about Raul, he’s got no pretensions. “I do not know his work. I am not accustomed to seeing live theater.”
“No? What do you prefer?” I still sound bitchy as fuck. I don’t care.
“Music.” He says it with such warmth and sincerity, I melt a little around the edges. “I love the live music. Blues, classical, jazz, flamenco, rock—I don’t care. Musicians are my gods.”
I chuckle, the clenched fist in my belly releasing a little. “Everyone needs a passion.”
“Yes.” His dark eyes hold mine. “What is yours?”
“Writing. Reading. The magic of books. Though, lately, my passion feels more like a pathology.”
“How so?”
I shrug. “My agent’s not happy with my latest manuscript. I don’t blame her. I hate it, even if I did write it. The muses can be cruel and fickle.”
“Do you know Pedro Calderón de la Barca?”
I shake my head.
“He was a great Spanish dramatist and poet. According to him, ‘If love is not madness, it is not love.’”
“Nice.” I can’t help smiling at that.
A face in the crowd catches my eye. It’s Sam Grist. He’s heading up the aisle straight toward us. Jess, the girl from workshop whose stories always end with someone giving someone else a blow job, trails in his wake. I’m not surprised Sam’s asked her out. She flirts with him so boldly in class. At times I feel embarrassed for her, but I suppose that brand of naked aggression is normal these days, not cheap and dirty the way it would have looked when I was in school. Everything about her is so sexual, a walking candy store of glimmering, moist promises. Sam has every right to date her. For some reason, though, I feel another pang of irrational jealousy. God, I’m a mess tonight.
