a minor confrontation |
“Why so sad?” she asks, all false guile and beleaguered innocence. “It’s for the best.” Could it be possible – who could be that dumb – that she does not know? A glimpse behind the façade, a bright glint in her eye, of anger and world-weary resignation, says otherwise. She knew exactly what we had done. Destroying it might be the only pleasure – that’s her fourth vodka-tonic – she has left. Here she is acting as if her careless – or calculated – words had not trampled Upon these unrealistic expectations. It does not hurt as much as she thinks. The smile she wears – blank but strangely menacing – is practiced. He was the one spouting the usual nonsense, and how remarkably effective, about ‘separation’ and being ‘misunderstood’. Argue with him. All I did was say yes. She calls out to the bartender, “Another round.” The words are mildly slurred but not as much as I would think for drink six. She has An impressive tolerance for one so small in mind and stature. Downing that one and motioning for the next her smiles are lopsided now, fraying at the edges, “Not the first, not the last.” Sipping now instead of chugging, she continues. “I’m the only constant.’” Pride – something a lot like shame – reverberates in that statement. Moving slowly, the mild tremor in her hands from exhaustion or drink, she adds, “Do you understand?” Her shaky hand riding the inseam of my trousers. A nod. Message received. “Good. Enjoy your drink.” On a napkin soiled with lipstick – perfect, pouty red – is her number. A last desperate empty gesture trying to beat him at his own game. |