Prose

By her second drink he could see the ‘friends’ speech ebbing over his horizon even though it was, more than likely (or maybe not), still weeks away.  At 36 he had her by half a dozen years and, while she could still fill in the ‘single’ circle on a questionnaire, he had to begrudgingly fill in ‘divorced.’  She was pretty though, with her wide green eyes and shoulder length brown hair and her perfect chin that seemed to remind him of that armless Venus statue.  He liked the way she looked right in his eyes when she talked and seemed to really listen instead of waiting for her next cue.  It was a trait he lacked in any natural sense but tried to implement through sheer will.  He failed as often as he succeeded.  They traded anecdotes about work and family and single life.  More often than not his stories slanted towards self-depreciation while hers went either towards politics or, again, work.  They both taught.
            ‘This woman wants kids,’ it may as well have been a neon sign blinking above the slightly tussled hair on her head.  He, on the other hand, already had a few.  One living with an ex-wife and a second, almost voting age, living in Florida with her mother, the results of a teenage fling he could barely remember.
            The word you’re thinking of is ‘baggage.’
            He hated dating.  He’d spent six years with a woman even though after three (two, let’s be honest) he knew their future was limited.  She wanted to see the world, change it maybe.  He was keen on seeing some parts and, when pushed, learned to camp and travel and take pictures.  But in all honesty he was just as keen as seeing the world from his barc-o-lounger as from an actual vantage point.  The split had been not only amicable but pleasant.  They still spoke or e-mailed once in a while.  He tried to sound well and she was careful not to mention men’s names.  Lately he found himself thinking about her, not missing her exactly but just hoping her dating life was as unsuccessful as his was.  Not a nice thought, he would acknowledge to any psychic in the room who happened to be reading his mind, just a basic selfishness with a dash of loneliness thrown in for good measure.
            She finished her anecdote and excused herself to use the ladies room.  He tried to look her over without being obvious; padded bra, decent ass, no belly to speak of.  A part of him hoped he was wrong about the neon.  But she would want a man who could sweep her off her feet, maybe take her to Paris or Rome with little notice, not someone who has alternating weekend custody and paying out child support instead of taking weekend jaunts to the Bahamas.
            The word you’re thinking of is ‘encumbered.’
            The waitress skipped by, asking if everything was alright but not actually sticking around to find out.  He waved his empty glass in her direction but knew she didn’t see him.  He found himself glad, actually, since he was already ahead of her by two beers.  He’d arrived early and had been halfway through his second pint when she arrived.  He’d told her it was his first.  The bartender had given him a quick look but said nothing and he’d over tipped to thank him.
            Upon her return she told a sordid tale of poor lavatory maintenance, the unavailability of toilet seat liners, and the inherent difficulty in hovering and peeing simultaneously.  He laughed, maybe a bit too loudly, and then she blushed and apologized for definitively ‘un-first –date-like’ behavior.  He told her it was alright but he somehow knew it wasn’t.  He asked her if she wanted another drink and she said ‘no.’
            The word you’re thinking of is ‘conclusion.’
            The finale occurred when he walked her to her car and discovered it wasn’t a car at all.  The SUV was at least ten years old and, unlike most of the mammoth vehicles he passed on the road, (in his economy hatchback, great mileage, 4-cylander, jokes about hamsters in squeaky wheels) hers looked as if it had actually been used as an SUV.  She used the key to unlock the door and as she was turned away he leaned in for what he assumed would be the obligatory ‘good night kiss.’  And that’s what really ended it. 
            The second his face entered her line of sight she lurched away without regard for cramped spaces or boundaries and succeeded in slamming the side of her head into the car roof.  She cried out and he lurched back (hitting nothing, maintaining his balance) and apologized.  After a few exchanged quips about surprise and clumsiness (hers) and misinterpreted signals (his) she got into her truck and he turned away, walking back to his own car, never mentioning the thin trickle of blood that had been crawling past her ear.  He thought about that thin red line the entire way home and well into the twelve pack that had been sitting in his fridge.  It distracted him from the movie he was watching (for the tenth, maybe fourteenth time) and from the book he later tried and failed to read.  It stayed with him into sleep.  He dreamt about it.
            The word you’re thinking of is
 
 
-The End-