“I want to tell you about my day,” said Robert. He stopped short of saying, “I want to tell you everything about me.”
“So tell me about your day,” said Maggie. “That’s what I’m here for, to listen. To you. And your day.” She ducked her head down. Her auburn hair—thick and soft to the touch—dangled over her shoulders, which were covered, like her cheeks, with freckles. Then she raised her eyes up, opened and closed them slowly, then brushed her cheek against her bare shoulder, like a cat cleaning itself. It was a move that had brought down many men, a move that said nothing at all, yet had the portent of sexuality. She didn’t know where she had learned it, only that she had been doing it forever. It had started out maybe as a way to hide, eyes downcast. But then she realized people didn’t want her to hide, so she added the upturned eye. I’m still here. I’m in my space, but I’m looking at yours.
OK, that was exhausting, she thought. She pulled her head back, balanced it precariously on her neck, then rested it on the top of her chair and let the last of the setting sun hit her forehead. It made her smile. She thought about taking a nap but decided against it. There should be places where you can nap at bars, she thought. A little nook. A nap nook.
“Well, I was late for work this morning,” he said. Robert was practically yelling. It was noisy on the patio, he forgot how loud it could get. If he was trying for romance he had failed, he thought.
“I was getting coffee at this new place over by the convention center—I got a coupon for it in the mail—and when I was walking out…”
Maggie watched a waitress serve a woman at the next table a frozen purple drink with a straw shaped like a man’s penis, complete with a tiny set of testicles. She had seen the sign for them when she entered. They were called “Purple Pricks,” and they were reportedly ideal for bachelorette parties. I would have made the drink blue and called it “Blue Balls,” she thought. I should put that in the suggestion box on the way out.
“…A truck pulls up right next to mine. It’s a beater, rusted out, chipped paint, the right front fender was down, you know, a real piece of shit. And this guy gets out. He’s only a little younger than me but the way he’s dressed—there was something written on his T-shirt, and his hair, like, was so long it hung down in the front?—it makes me think he’s a kid.”
He sounds kind of sexy, thought Maggie. She missed the scruffy New York boys she used to study at her local bar before she was banished to the suburbs by her employer. (Why didn’t it feel more like a promotion? she often wondered.) Those boys wouldn’t have dated her—she had always been too clean-cut (Boring, she thought. I know what I am) for boys like that—but it made her feel sexier just knowing she was near them. And then she remembered she was on a date. Focus.
“I can see your point,” she said. “Bad car, bad hair. Go on.”
“So I notice he’s pulling stuff out of the trunk. I’m not sticking my nose in his business, but he’s just doing it while I’m standing right there, getting my keys out, you know, I had to put the coffee on top of my car, fold up the paper, it takes a while, especially if I”—and with this, he jerked his head back and gave Maggie a playful wink—“haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“Of course,” she said. Robert’s fine when he’s not being twitchy, she thought. Why does he have to twitch? One minute he’s this handsome, normal man with really nice teeth and a lot of money, and the next he’s this spazzy kid. Less jerking and whirring and face-making, and more silence. Yes. That would be nice.
“OK, he’s pulling out boxes, a couple of boxes of books, it looked like; there were photo albums in there, too, I could see; and then there’s two suitcases, old-fashioned ones with leather straps around them, and they’re kind of worn. He takes everything out and walks them over to the sidewalk, stacks them up, one by one, next to a bench outside of the 7-Eleven. By now I’m in my car, buckled in, ready to go. You wear your seat belt, don’t you? You should always wear your seat belt. I had a cousin who got rear-ended once, and he wasn’t wearing his seat belt. Went through the windshield, and now he can’t see out of his right eye. He sued the guy, though, and now he never has to work again. I think I’d rather be able to see out of both eyes, though, you know?”
Maggie nodded somberly. She looked to the side and made eye contact with the waitress, motioned for another. “You, too?” she said to Robert, then held up two fingers for the waitress.
“Sure. Why not? It’s Friday night and it feels all right, right?” He raised his eyebrows. “Now where was I?”