nodded but didn’t say
anything the rest of his meal. He didn’t even leave a noticeable tip, so I was surprised when the hostess handed me a folded
piece of paper.
“From that good-lookin’ blond guy,” she said, peering over my shoulder as I opened it. Carlita, my pseudo Spanish pal, give me a call sometime. We’ll eat hot food and drink Mexican wine. Francisco 555-4289.
“Nice handwriting,” she said. “You gonna call him?”
“No.” I crumbled the note and stuck it in my apron pocket.
“Of course you’re going to call him,” Sandee said during our last cig dig of the day. I was covered with salsa and reeked
of tequila—the lawyers had gotten boisterous. “He’s smart, funny. For Christ’s sake, he’s a Swiss god.”
“Norwegian,” I corrected.
“Did you see his feet? They’re enormous. That means he has a big dick.”
“As if I care.”
“You do. Or at least you should.” Sandee fake-smoked in tense silence. Her own love life was a mess, but she felt it was her
duty as best friend to boss me toward something better. “You’re parked on a cul-de-sac when you’ve got a whole highway in
front of you,” she finally said.
“Francisco’s a highway?”
“You know what I mean.” She stabbed her unsmoked cigarette out on the side wall of the lounge. “He’s a possibility. How can
you turn away from that?”
I couldn’t explain the fear that clutched my stomach when I thought of doing it all again: the anxious first date, followed
by the worry that there wouldn’t be a second date, followed by the anticipation and worry of the first night of lovemaking,
and then the rushed two or three months after that, when all I would think about would be him.
Then the inevitable moment I looked over at him and noticed that his ears were crooked or that he used coasters (coasters!)
when he set a glass on the coffee table and something inside of me would come crashing down and I would realize with a start,
with a deep sense of betrayal, that he wasn’t quite perfect after all. Then, like dominos falling over, his faults and weaknesses,
his bad habits and insecurities, would slam down over my head. Worse still would be the realization that he would be looking
at me in the same way, seeing all of my own worst traits and failings.
And then would come the talks, the long, agonizing nights spent talking instead of making love, when we would pour out our
doubts and decide if we should call it quits or bravely navigate past this rough patch. If we made it through all of that,
we would settle down to a life of steady comfort, interlaced with occasional bouts of mad passion, along with a couple of
hefty fights where we would throw things and blame the other for all of our faults.
I didn’t have the energy to do it all again. I wanted to bypass the beginning and settle down in the middle. I wanted to know
the ending to all of a man’s stories and sit beside him eating sandwiches and know that he’ll always say, “Are you sure this
is mayonnaise and not Miracle Whip?” and be certain that we will always have sex on Saturdays and Tuesdays. It angered Sandee
when I talked this way because she felt similar. Maybe a lot of women do, once they reach their midthirties and have played
all the games and worn the sexy lingerie and had multiple orgasms and multiple partners and multiple heartbreaks. After a
while an orgasm is an orgasm is an orgasm, and if truth be known, it’s easier to invest in a good vibrator and let your fingers
do the walking. Love is too complicated. It takes too much effort. It’s something we all want, but we want it our way.
What’s on my kitchen table
Gas bill: DUE!
Phone bill: PAST DUE!
Visa bill: WAAAAYY OVERDUE!!
Chatty Cathy torso
Francisco’s phone number, crumbled into a tight ball
Chapter 5
Thursday, Oct. 27
JAY-JAY WAS IN A QUIET MOOD when I picked him up from school this afternoon, his face pale, a smudge of green marker
anything the rest of his meal. He didn’t even leave a noticeable tip, so I was surprised when the hostess handed me a folded
piece of paper.
“From that good-lookin’ blond guy,” she said, peering over my shoulder as I opened it. Carlita, my pseudo Spanish pal, give me a call sometime. We’ll eat hot food and drink Mexican wine. Francisco 555-4289.
“Nice handwriting,” she said. “You gonna call him?”
“No.” I crumbled the note and stuck it in my apron pocket.
“Of course you’re going to call him,” Sandee said during our last cig dig of the day. I was covered with salsa and reeked
of tequila—the lawyers had gotten boisterous. “He’s smart, funny. For Christ’s sake, he’s a Swiss god.”
“Norwegian,” I corrected.
“Did you see his feet? They’re enormous. That means he has a big dick.”
“As if I care.”
“You do. Or at least you should.” Sandee fake-smoked in tense silence. Her own love life was a mess, but she felt it was her
duty as best friend to boss me toward something better. “You’re parked on a cul-de-sac when you’ve got a whole highway in
front of you,” she finally said.
“Francisco’s a highway?”
“You know what I mean.” She stabbed her unsmoked cigarette out on the side wall of the lounge. “He’s a possibility. How can
you turn away from that?”
I couldn’t explain the fear that clutched my stomach when I thought of doing it all again: the anxious first date, followed
by the worry that there wouldn’t be a second date, followed by the anticipation and worry of the first night of lovemaking,
and then the rushed two or three months after that, when all I would think about would be him.
Then the inevitable moment I looked over at him and noticed that his ears were crooked or that he used coasters (coasters!)
when he set a glass on the coffee table and something inside of me would come crashing down and I would realize with a start,
with a deep sense of betrayal, that he wasn’t quite perfect after all. Then, like dominos falling over, his faults and weaknesses,
his bad habits and insecurities, would slam down over my head. Worse still would be the realization that he would be looking
at me in the same way, seeing all of my own worst traits and failings.
And then would come the talks, the long, agonizing nights spent talking instead of making love, when we would pour out our
doubts and decide if we should call it quits or bravely navigate past this rough patch. If we made it through all of that,
we would settle down to a life of steady comfort, interlaced with occasional bouts of mad passion, along with a couple of
hefty fights where we would throw things and blame the other for all of our faults.
I didn’t have the energy to do it all again. I wanted to bypass the beginning and settle down in the middle. I wanted to know
the ending to all of a man’s stories and sit beside him eating sandwiches and know that he’ll always say, “Are you sure this
is mayonnaise and not Miracle Whip?” and be certain that we will always have sex on Saturdays and Tuesdays. It angered Sandee
when I talked this way because she felt similar. Maybe a lot of women do, once they reach their midthirties and have played
all the games and worn the sexy lingerie and had multiple orgasms and multiple partners and multiple heartbreaks. After a
while an orgasm is an orgasm is an orgasm, and if truth be known, it’s easier to invest in a good vibrator and let your fingers
do the walking. Love is too complicated. It takes too much effort. It’s something we all want, but we want it our way.
What’s on my kitchen table
Gas bill: DUE!
Phone bill: PAST DUE!
Visa bill: WAAAAYY OVERDUE!!
Chatty Cathy torso
Francisco’s phone number, crumbled into a tight ball
Chapter 5
Thursday, Oct. 27
JAY-JAY WAS IN A QUIET MOOD when I picked him up from school this afternoon, his face pale, a smudge of green marker
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