subject as we walked the immaculate sidewalks of Coronado. “Hey, whatever happened with that guy in Austin?”
“What guy?” Greta asked.
“Hello. The guy you were living with. The guy it ‘just didn’t work out with and I don’t want to talk about it.’ Remember him?”
We walked in silence until we reached an empty Starbucks. “Morning, Greta,” said the clerk. “Mocha latte venti?” She shook her head to approve. “And for you, ma’am?”
Greta stirred her whipped cream until it dissolved completely in her coffee. “I’m sorry, Mona. I know I promised we’d drop the subject, but I have to ask — how are you so sure he’s the one?”
“I’ll make you a deal.” I sighed. “I’ll tell you what you want to know about Adam if you tell me what was so awful about your breakup that you had to move back home.”
Greta shifted her weight from one side of her seat to the other. “The usual reasons,” she said, unnaturally upbeat. I wish I could have thick lips like Greta’s, so full and uneven on the bottom. Mine look like a Muppet’s — a sliced open face with no rim to delineate the mouth. “We outgrew each other, so it was time to move on.”
“That’s pretty boring,” I said.
“True.”
“That’s really all there is to it?”
“That’s all she wrote.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said. “There’s always more to it than that.”
“Not always. Okay, your turn.”
“Hmm. Let’s see,” I began. “First, there’s chemistry between me and Adam. You can’t underestimate the power of pure physical attraction. Second, he’s from a great family. They’re so close that Grammy said they all take vacations together. They even manage to have Sunday dinners once a month. I think that’s sweet. I want to bring children into a family like that.” Greta shifted again. “And, third, I don’t know. There’s just something about him. He makes my hair twirl. He makes me want to twirl my hair around my finger, flop onto my bed, and talk to him on the phone all night. I don’t know, Greta. I just love him. I just do. I can’t tell you exactly why, but I’ve got this gut feeling that he’s the one. You know that feeling when you hear music that really resonates with you? You feel like someone drew a map straight to your soul, and the music travels the roads, seeps in through your pores, and follows every route to the very core of you. The part you rarely go to because it’s so delicate that if you so much as inhale, you’ll cry from the extraordinary, overwhelming sense of happiness. Do you know what I mean? That’s how I feel when I think of Adam, and I have no logical explanation for it whatsoever. And I’m not one bit sorry about it either. I’m only sorry I waited so long to pursue it.”
Greta took in what I was saying. I could see her mentally starting several rebuttals until she came up with this one. “You aren’t pursuing it, though. Mona, you told me about Adam two weeks ago, and so far you haven’t even picked up the telephone. Are you afraid the real Adam Ziegler won’t be enough to live up to your fantasy?”
I tried to prevent my eyes from watering, but was soon looking at Greta through rising tears. “No. I’m afraid the real Mona Warren won’t be enough.” I took a deep breath and held back my tears. I try not to cry very often because when I do, it lasts for hours and exhausts the life out of me. When I really get going, I start gulping and sobbing and it’s just an all-around mess. Every few years or so, I can’t help myself, but as a general rule, I try to stop crying before it starts.
“Mona, I’m sorry,” Greta said, running to the counter for napkins. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I rolled the brown napkin into a point and stuck it into the corner of my eye. I felt the tears jump onto the napkin, escaping my miserable face. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said, sniffling. “I have no clue what I’m doing. That’s why
“What guy?” Greta asked.
“Hello. The guy you were living with. The guy it ‘just didn’t work out with and I don’t want to talk about it.’ Remember him?”
We walked in silence until we reached an empty Starbucks. “Morning, Greta,” said the clerk. “Mocha latte venti?” She shook her head to approve. “And for you, ma’am?”
Greta stirred her whipped cream until it dissolved completely in her coffee. “I’m sorry, Mona. I know I promised we’d drop the subject, but I have to ask — how are you so sure he’s the one?”
“I’ll make you a deal.” I sighed. “I’ll tell you what you want to know about Adam if you tell me what was so awful about your breakup that you had to move back home.”
Greta shifted her weight from one side of her seat to the other. “The usual reasons,” she said, unnaturally upbeat. I wish I could have thick lips like Greta’s, so full and uneven on the bottom. Mine look like a Muppet’s — a sliced open face with no rim to delineate the mouth. “We outgrew each other, so it was time to move on.”
“That’s pretty boring,” I said.
“True.”
“That’s really all there is to it?”
“That’s all she wrote.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said. “There’s always more to it than that.”
“Not always. Okay, your turn.”
“Hmm. Let’s see,” I began. “First, there’s chemistry between me and Adam. You can’t underestimate the power of pure physical attraction. Second, he’s from a great family. They’re so close that Grammy said they all take vacations together. They even manage to have Sunday dinners once a month. I think that’s sweet. I want to bring children into a family like that.” Greta shifted again. “And, third, I don’t know. There’s just something about him. He makes my hair twirl. He makes me want to twirl my hair around my finger, flop onto my bed, and talk to him on the phone all night. I don’t know, Greta. I just love him. I just do. I can’t tell you exactly why, but I’ve got this gut feeling that he’s the one. You know that feeling when you hear music that really resonates with you? You feel like someone drew a map straight to your soul, and the music travels the roads, seeps in through your pores, and follows every route to the very core of you. The part you rarely go to because it’s so delicate that if you so much as inhale, you’ll cry from the extraordinary, overwhelming sense of happiness. Do you know what I mean? That’s how I feel when I think of Adam, and I have no logical explanation for it whatsoever. And I’m not one bit sorry about it either. I’m only sorry I waited so long to pursue it.”
Greta took in what I was saying. I could see her mentally starting several rebuttals until she came up with this one. “You aren’t pursuing it, though. Mona, you told me about Adam two weeks ago, and so far you haven’t even picked up the telephone. Are you afraid the real Adam Ziegler won’t be enough to live up to your fantasy?”
I tried to prevent my eyes from watering, but was soon looking at Greta through rising tears. “No. I’m afraid the real Mona Warren won’t be enough.” I took a deep breath and held back my tears. I try not to cry very often because when I do, it lasts for hours and exhausts the life out of me. When I really get going, I start gulping and sobbing and it’s just an all-around mess. Every few years or so, I can’t help myself, but as a general rule, I try to stop crying before it starts.
“Mona, I’m sorry,” Greta said, running to the counter for napkins. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I rolled the brown napkin into a point and stuck it into the corner of my eye. I felt the tears jump onto the napkin, escaping my miserable face. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said, sniffling. “I have no clue what I’m doing. That’s why
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