“I’m hiding out,” you say, and you look over both shoulders like someone’s going to come up behind you, eyes huge, eyebrows raised, long sweet neck extended, and it’s exaggerated to make me laugh; you’re kidding, is what you’re telling me, only I know that you’re not.
I pick up the chalk, fit the groove onto the tip of the cue. I check it twice, blow once. I act like it needs to be perfect, but really I’m used to all kinds of flaws. Everyone’s got their thing that makes them stand out. A buddy of mine—I’m not going to say who, but if you live here long enough, you’ll figure it out—he’s on the meds now. His wife left him for some guy from Chico who came into town for a few months to teach at the art school. They’d only been married for a year, so I guess if there’s any time to show your cheating colors, she picked the right one. Might as well get it all out in the open in the beginning. Anyway, the split really threw him for a loop, so I guess his dosage is pretty high, and it’s been wreaking havoc with his digestive system. You’ll be out on a Friday night, here, or at one of the restaurants downtown, and then all of a sudden he’ll clear the room, it’ll smell so bad. But do we stop being friends with him? No.
I’m sure you’ve got your thing, too, though it’s hard to imagine it from just looking at you. I mean, you’re a gorgeous woman—a woman, right, you’re no kid, I was just playing with you—and everything about you is tripping me out. The way you speak is so measured and calm, like you’re hammering in a nail with one clean shot. You’re a working woman, that always impresses me. I can’t tell you how many women are looking for a free ride around here. I need a woman who has her shit together. It’s easier to hold your head high and stand up straight when you’ve got somewhere to go in the morning. Spring in your step as you walk out the front door. I bet you’ve got that spring. I’ll bet you’re going places.
Plus you’ve got that pretty red hair that falls so nicely on your shoulders. And those freckles, man, I want to start counting them, then lose track and have to start all over again. I want to hold your cheeks in my hands, stroke them gently with my fingers. Kiss the tip of your nose, then your forehead. Let your eyelashes flutter on my chin. Then take a big taste of those lips, top one, bottom one, both of them, suck it all in.
I don’t meet a lot of women I like, so when I do, my heart practically explodes.
“You’re safe now,” I say.
For a long time I thought my perfect woman would be one who stuttered. By the time she had finished what she wanted to say, I would almost be ready to speak. And when I finally met a stutterer, a pretty design student named Sarah, right here in this very bar, I felt like everything in my life up until that point had been on hold, that now my life was truly ready to begin.
Sarah, she told me so many stories when we met, about being raised in a Christian family who prayed and tithed on Sundays so that they could yell at each other guilt-free the rest of the week. Three older brothers who told Sarah she wasn’t loved when their parents weren’t around. A sweet chubby toddler crying underneath the back porch, drawing pictures in the dirt with her finger to keep herself company. And then they told her that her blossoming hips were fat, every day, every meal. There was a lisp that turned into a stutter. And now she was dumb, too, they said. So she took an overprotective pothead as a boyfriend, one who did all the talking. She started to smoke a lot of pot and watch MTV, stare at the rock stars with their big hair and wild makeup. She would sing along to every song without the slightest stutter. Their words were so easy to memorize. And then she turned to herself, learning how to put on thick eyeliner and shiny lip gloss and keep it perfect all night long, even if it meant running to the bathroom to reapply. “I’m sorry,” she’d said that night. “I’m always checking myself.”