You Love Me(You #3)(10)
You know that you are this woman and you shrug, slightly demure, and it’s a reminder that as much as we are soulmates, we don’t know each other, not like this, on a sidewalk in motion. “Oh come on,” I say. “You know I’m kidding… I don’t go out on the prowl at bars and I’m certainly never, you know, looking for babes…” RIP Beck walked into my bookstore same way you happen to work at my library. “For me it’s always intangible. It’s not about looks… it’s about chemistry.”
Did you just arch your back a little bit? Yes you did. “I get that,” you say. “I relate.”
We fall into a natural, sexy silence and if we were on a busy four-lane street in L.A., I could take your hand. I could kiss you. But this is an island and there is no anonymity and the walk is over. You open the door to the diner and my eyes turn into hearts. Retro red. Red booths like our Red Bed and you chose this place because of the booths. You know the host and he’s a gentle man—ring on his finger—and he tells you your booth is open, your booth as in our booth.
We sit across from each other and I did it. I got you all to myself. And you did it. You got me all to yourself.
I open the menu and you open a menu even though you’ve been eating here for a hundred years. “I always get the same thing, but I think I’ll mix it up today.”
I make you want to try new things and I smile. “Any suggestions for me?”
“Everything’s good,” you say. “But I wouldn’t mind if you got something with fries… just saying.”
You order a bowl of chili and I go for a club sandwich with fries and you smile at me but then something catches your eye. You sit up straight and wave. “Melanda! Over here!”
It’s supposed to be you, me, and fries but your friend Melanda clomps up to our booth. Body by Costco—bulk-order boobs—and she moves like a linebacker charging for an end zone, as if life is war. She’s sweaty—wash that shit off before you enter a restaurant, Melanda—and she needs a tutorial on Instagram filters because the dissonance shouldn’t be this jarring. You air-kiss her and tell her she looks great—I don’t agree—and why is she here? Are you hazing me? The host brings Melanda a menu and her nostrils flare and she’s a so person, sucking up the oxygen with a non sequitur. “So I just had the worst row at school with that math teacher Barry who thinks that being ‘a father of daughters’ entitles him to help me with the Future.”
She’s not British and she shouldn’t say row and you look at me. “Melanda’s starting a nonprofit for local girls…” Melanda bites her lip in protest and you elbow her in response. “A nonprofit for young women…” She winces and you throw up your hands as in I give up and she puts her eyes on me.
“So, what MK means is that I’m building an incubator for young women. It’s called The Future Is Female. You’ve probably seen posters in the library…”
“I sure did,” I say, recalling the mixed messages inviting girls to establish boundaries online and commanding them to use her hashtag in all of their posts. #MelandaMatriarchySmashesThePatriarchy… and the young women who forget to promote her brand!
Melanda laughs. “And?”
“And obviously I’m all for it.”
You’re different around her, cautious, but that’s the story of humans. We shrink to fit. I know Melanda’s type. She doesn’t want questions. She wants praise, so I tell her it’s a genius idea. I don’t say that there’s a way to do these things without being a fucking asshole. But there is. “Well,” she says. “I’m past the idea phase. We launch early next year.” She picks up your water glass. “Which reminds me, MK, did you review my latest mission statement?”
You didn’t review it yet and you pull a packet of Splenda from your purse and she grimaces like you pulled out a crack pipe or a Bill Cosby biography. “Sweetie, no,” she coos. “You have to stop trying to kill yourself.”
That language was telling. On some level, she wants you to die, and you don’t know it and she doesn’t even fully know it and it’s all a little sad.
“I know,” you say. “I’m terrible. I have to stop it with the Splenda.”
It’s not my place to butt in—are you ever gonna introduce us?—and she sips your water and sighs. “So they fired my trainer, finally. I wasn’t the only one who complained about him.”
You say you’ve never joined a gym and I want to hear more but Melanda cuts you off to bitch about her toxic trainer and I wish she’d follow the rules spelled out on her T-shirt—LET HER SPEAK—and you wink at me and… wait. Is this a fucking setup?
“Melanda,” you say. “Before we get off track, this is Joe. I told you how he’s volunteering at the library, he just moved here a few months ago.”
I extend my hand. “Good to meet you, Melanda.”
She doesn’t shake my hand. She sort of pats it and this isn’t a setup. My first instinct was right. You are hazing me and Melanda’s like a wannabe tough frat guy in a Lifetime movie who doesn’t want anyone else in the frat. “How nice,” she simpers. “Another white man telling us what to read.” She slaps her clammy hand over mine. “Honey, please. You know I’m kidding, just having a day.”