Mouse laughs, and reaches out and touches his cheek. “Poor boy. Of course she likes you, Jose, you're beautiful. But you are only an English major. Maybe you will be a teacher, yes? A good life, but Barbie expects more than an ordinary life.”
“That sucks, Mouse.” Jose sips his beer pensively.
“Maybe, but I think that has always been how the world works. Used to be the man would always pick, but now the woman gets to pick too.”
“So who do you pick, Mouse?”
She laughs. “I'm too young, I just want to have fun. Later. Maybe. Perhaps I will be a famous writer like Erica Jong first yes?”
“Maybe I'll become a famous writer too. Win the Booker Prize, maybe even a Pulitzer.”
“You must be American to get that one.”
“Okay. The Nobel then.”
Mouse laughs “That's the spirit. Maybe then she will regret. But Barbie wants to go places now. She doesn't want to wait, has never had to because her beauty opens doors. She wants her power to find a star or a millionaire.”
“That lets me out.” Jose thumps his empty glass down and nibbles on peanuts from the bowl.
“Just relax and try to have some fun, Jose.”
“I guess.” Jose nods at the bar. “Hey, isn't that Boris?”
Mouse says, “Boris has even worse trouble than you.”
§
Boris sits at the bar, staring morosely into his glass of beer. He's depressed, not just because he's been rejected by the girl he loves, or even that he's been so publicly humiliated. What bothers him the most, the thing that has shaken his self image is that until now he had never realized that he was such a loser.
He always thought girls liked him. That at least he was okay, they at least didn't think he was repulsive. But maybe all these years when girls smiled at him they were really laughing at him. And he was too stupid to realize. Big dumb jock.
A couple of girls at the end of the bar are pointing and whispering. He knows they're looking at his black eye. Eyes. Leave it to Natasha to give him two. Hadda catch him in the sweet spot at the bridge of his nose. Feeling his jaw clench, Boris tracks the whispering girls in his peripheral vision.
Classic “A” type personality, Natasha. She can't just tell him to take a hike like any normal girl. No, she's gotta make a laughing stock of him. Give him a double shiner, decking him in front of the whole world. Which has of course put him smack-dab in the middle of the kind of story that makes the rounds so often that even the people who weren't there tell it as though they were.
The kind of story that will never die.
Ever.
They'll probably be telling it decades from now. But in the here and now his whole university career will be a living hell.
And for what, because he likes her?
Because he's just another poor sap who wants to be more than friends? God. Every other girl in the world bitches about guys not wanting commitment. Not Natasha. She'd as soon knock you down as look at you.
They could've at least stayed friends if it wasn't for that stupid spectacle, but now? Just thinking of the flashing light in her eyes just before she knocked him down makes him seethe.
Why couldn't she have given him a chance?
Bitch.
Downing the rest of the beer he catches Billie the bartender's eye, points at his empty. She nods and pulls him a fresh draught. Watching her set it in front of him with a smile, he realizes morosely Billie probably knows the whole story too.
It's bad enough being humiliated by one woman but two in the same day? Hell, Elsie sleeps with everybody, but nooo, not him. Not Boris the loser. Even Elsie the easy is too good for him.
Bitch.
Drinking more beer he asks himself, not for the first time, how could he live this long and not have known he was a loser? Talk about living in denial.
Maybe denial is a loser survival trait. If you don't know you're a loser you don't jump out a window or slit your wrists. If you don't think you're a loser you can get out of bed in the morning and face the day. If you haven't realized you're a loser you can get on with your life, take your pictures, soak up some rays, pump a little iron, go out for a drink with your pal.
Except his pal Natasha decked him and in the process told him and everyone else what a loser he is.
What a fool, thinking you could be friends with a girl. Yeah.
The girls are giggling now, and he glowers over at them.
He can feel the giant “L” Natasha left imprinted in the middle of his forehead.
One of the girls looks guiltily away, the other meets his eyes defiantly. She smiles, then suddenly blushes a deep crimson. Hmm, maybe she's . . . flirting? She holds his gaze. Nah. Probably just fucking with his head, a popular pastime. Make this a new civic holiday, call it “Screw With Boris Day.”
He turns his attention to his beer and drinks more, watching bubbles float up without caring what causes them. Women. The cause of all the problems in the world. Maybe there is something in that Garden of Eden stuff Papa was always going on about.
He'd always just chalked it up to the fact that Mama left. Ran off with that Russian artist. Maybe Papa was right. Boris knows he had been ready to fly in the face of family, not just any family, his family, to defend her. Even knowing they would never accept any girl who wasn't Croatian.
He would have faced them for her.
And of all the non-Croatian girls in the world to bring home, the absolute worst would be a Russian girl. It might even get him disowned. But he'd have done it for Natasha. Stood up for her. Because he loves her, damn it. And what does she do? She hits him. Disrespects him like that. Papa says women are the root of all . . .
Boris freezes as he feels a gentle touch on his arm. His peripheral vision tells him that there's only one girl left at the end of the bar.
Great, they aren't happy with tormenting him from afar. He turns to look at her. She looks nervous. Good. He gives her his best death metal glower.
What can she possibly want from him?
“Hi.” she smiles. “I'm Sarah. Would it be okay if I joined you?” Boris continues glowering but she just smiles again, nervously, and slides onto the stool. “You're Boris, right?” Boris just stares at her blackly. She glances away, then beckons the bartender over.
Sipping his beer, Boris waits for the punchline. He can see it now, she's gonna order a Black Russian.
Because all the ignoramuses here at Christie think it's a certainty that he's a Russian because of his name. These university assholes are mostly too stupid to even know there's a difference.
Billie the bartender comes over, “Help ya?”
The girl nods. “Tequila Sunrise please.”
Billie pours a shot of tequila into a glass, douses it with O.J. and deftly splashes grenadine over the top, then sets it on a cocktail napkin in front of the girl.
“And another for him.” the girl is rooting in her purse for some money, which she passes across the bar as the fresh draught arrives.
Boris watches as the grenadine sinks to the bottom of her glass, glancing from glass to girl. Trying to find the joke, the put down. This is some hot babe, slinky as all get out. She's a lot softer looking than Natasha, is, that's for sure. Boris is still wondering what the punch line is.
The bartender slaps the change on the counter before moving off to the other end of the bar, and the girl just leaves the coins lay, sipping at her drink. She sure is pretty. Not a tom-boy like Natasha, this girl is wearing a dress, even. Gold chain around her neck, hanging down and disappearing in her cleavage.
She looks over the rim of the highball glass, smiling mysteriously. She licks her lips and suddenly Boris is having a hard time catching his breath. This is like a classic femme fatale pick up scene straight out of film noir. This can't possibly be happening. Not to him. God this is making him horny.
A quick glance down the bar tells him that the friend has gone. Hmmm. Boris feels a light touch along his calf, and he glances down, startl
ed. Sarah's allowed her ridiculous red shoes —Natasha would never be caught dead in such absurd footwear— to slide off her feet, and the naked toes of one foot are curled around the stool's lower crossbar, the other languorously rubs the inside of his leg.
Boris smiles, the black Slavic mood abruptly gone. This girl is not only buying him drinks, she is coming on to him. If it's a joke, he's willing to take it like a man. He looks over at her face, she's watching him through veiled lashes, breathing shallowly.
Nervous, but not stopping. Mmmm.
Boris is feeling less like a loser and more like a lion as he slides the empty glass away, and picks up the glass of draught beer she bought him. He leans over to clink glasses with her. Sarah. She smiles, takes a sip, licks her lips. Boris smiles back.
“Maybe we'd be a little more comfortable in a booth? Quieter anyway.” he suggests.
“I think the one at the back is empty.” she replies. Then wiggles her toes. “Maybe you could get my shoes?”
Sliding off the stool, Boris drops into a squat and picks up the first shoe. The sharp edges and pointy bits on these things look painful. She extends her foot, pointing her toe, and he slides the shoe on. His smile widens. This is kinda sexy.
Boris picks up the second shoe and lifts it toward her foot but she snakes it around and down to run those toes across his groin. Oh boy.
Boris grabs the foot and slides the shoe over it, before awkwardly rising to his feet. He looks into the girl's eyes, and they are smouldering. Oh.
She reaches out and rests her hands on his shoulders then slides off the stool, brushing against him all the way down. Then she turns and starts down to the aisle to the back booth.
Watching her walk Boris understands the point of those damned shoes. Swaying hips. Boris' breath catches again.
Oh my.
Natasha never swayed quite like that. Boris tears his eyes away from the sultry undulation just long enough to grab their glasses off the bar so he can follow her.
Maybe girls do like him.
chapter 56 . . .
Amelia weeps openly as the fireflies rise above the funeral pyre. The odd snuffle undermines Eric's attempts to maintain an image of stoicism.
“That was depressing all right.” Amelia blows her nose as the credits roll. “But it was the wrong kind of depressing.”
“Wait a minute, wait just one minute— what do you mean the wrong kind of depressing! You never said anything about there being different types of depressing.”
“Uh no, but I figured any guy who could come up with that Loneliness song would understand we're talking love-lorn depression here. You know, star crossed lovers, like that. What my mom would call a tear jerker, and my dad would call mush.”
“Sorry, next time put on a qualifier. I guess this means it's your turn?”
“Sure is, and I've got just the thing.” Amelia puts ‘City of Angels’ in the machine.
Eric says, “You still haven't told me who the guy is.
“Guy?” Amelia asks innocently. “What guy?”
“Your guy.”
“Oh, he's not my guy. If he was my guy would I be here with you?” She laughs.
“Amelia?”
“What?”
“Why didn't anybody tell me Elsie was fucking every guy she clapped eyes on?”
“Well.” Amelia clears her throat. He's watching her expectantly, so she can't dodge it outright. “Not every guy.”
Holding up his hands, Eric says, “Stop. I don't want to know, really.” He slumps back in his corner of the sofa. “Just now that it's too late everybody's happy to fill me in on the gory details.”
“I haven't.”
“Huh. No. You haven't. Why haven't you?”
“Would it help?”
“No.”
“And you might get back together with her.”
“No way. No how. Never.”
“Really?”
He meets her eye. “Maybe. But why didn't anybody tell me then?”
“Would you have listened?”
“Probably not. But I feel seriously stupid now. But even so I miss her. I'll be laying in my room, all by myself and then suddenly I can smell her. Instant hard on.” Eric claps his hand over his mouth. “Sorry, I mean . . .”
“Bodily functions happen to the best of us.” Amelia grins. “But I know what you mean, and they say scent memory is the worst. Maybe wash your sheets, any clothes she wore, like that.”
“That's a good idea. But it's so weird to be discussing this . . .”
“With a girl?” Amelia laughs. “So tell me, what guy can you discuss this with?”
“Uh. I guess there isn't one. Jose would be closest, but really, we're just drinking buddies. I haven't really discussed her with him. I hooked up with Elsie in the first week and, well. I guess there wasn't time for anybody except school and Elsie. Once in a while I'd maybe have a beer with the guys after class. Mostly I haven't really been available to be friends with anyone.” He smiles over at her. “Until now.”
“Maybe that's part of why nobody told you. Acquaintances aren't usually willing to go out on a limb for you. It's a big risk telling anyone they're being stepped out on. Messengers do get shot you know.”
“Yeah, I guess. And in a lot of ways I'm still hung up on her, and sometimes I think if she just looked at me the right way, well maybe I would go back to her.
“Really?”
“Well. Maybe. I can't get her out of my head.”
“Just take it easy, that's all. Try to give it time.”
“Are you attracted to me?”
“Um.” Amelia purses her lips. “Maybe I shouldn't answer.”
“Aw hell, Amelia, I'm not 'the guy' am I? I mean, I like you a lot, but I'm not remotely attracted to you.
“Oh that's a relief.” Amelia bursts out laughing.
Eric frowns. “What?”
“I was worried you were eyeing me up for a rebound. I like you as a friend, and you're not bad looking, and you are the kind of guy I ought to be attracted to. But I'm just not. Sorry.”
“So why wouldn't you just say that before?”
“Because I figured you've had your heart stomped pretty good, I didn't want to stomp it more. But I do like you and I'd be honoured to be your friend. Just not your squeeze.”
Eric snorts. “Squeeze, who says squeeze?”
“If we're gonna hang around together you better know up front that after Asimov my favourite author is Dash Hammett. I love anything noir but Dash is the man. So sometimes words like 'squeeze'and 'gunsel' just pop right out in my conversation.”
Eric looks at her and bursts out laughing.
“What's so funny about that?”
“That's great. You talk like a Bogart character and we aren't romantically attracted to each other. Great.”
“Does that mean we can be friends?”
“Sure. But only on one condition. You have to tell me who the guy is.”
Amelia glances around, making sure no one is lurking, listening. She puts in the DVD and comes back to sit beside Eric. Leaning close she whispers in his ear, “Jose.”
“Jose? You're talking about Jose? You think Jose is a hunk?”
“Shhh!”
“But he's, he's, ordinary. He doesn't even have muscles or anything. Even I probably have a better body than he does.”
“Most girls aren't into the muscle man thing. That's more a guy thing, to want to look like that, part of the whole alpha male deal. Not to say we don't want a guy to have a good body, but that's not the most important thing. But Jose's body is pretty good.”
He looks at her in surprise. “Why on earth would you like Jose? I mean he's a nice guy and all, but he's . . . you're really smart and, how do I say this . . . He doesn't have two brain cells to rub together.”
“It isn't his brains that get me hot.”
“Uh. This is a weird thing to be discussing with a girl.”
“Look, I have brothers so I doubt you could shock me.
”
“Well I have a sister and you sure as shit can shock me.”
“Sorry.”
“No, don't be. This is interesting. What do you see in Jose?”
“He may not be Einstein, but he's not as dim as you think, he just keeps stuff inside.”
“You think so?” Eric asks thoughtfully.
“Yeah. There's a lot going on behind his eyes. You know, the strong silent type. He may be sacrificing more brain cells than he can afford smoking up, but he has a few. That's not the point.”
“But what is the point then? I don't get it.”
“Because you're a straight guy, Eric.” She closes her eyes a moment. “I think he exudes pheromones. And of course it doesn't hurt he's got great buns. What can I say, there's something about the guy that makes me want to rip off his clothes. Maybe it's his bedroom eyes. They are just so deep. And he's got great eyelashes too, and yummy lips, you know. Kissable.
“Stop . . . no more. This is farther than I really wanna go here, okay? Jose is a friend, we eat lunch together and stuff. I really don't need this picture in my head.”
“The only girl he even looks at is that Barbie bimbo.”
“Well.”
“Ahhh. I get it. You think she's hot too.”
“Well, duh. I am a straight male.”
“Uh huh. One that doesn't find me at all alluring.”
“Uh . . . well Barbie's got . . .”
“Hooters. I get it Eric.”
“Not that I'd want to go there.”
“Because of Jose?”
“Yes. No. I don't know.”
“The girl is drop dead gorgeous.”
“Sure, and she'd be fine in a wet dream but I just can't see having a conversation with her.”
Amelia smiles. “I kind of feel sorry for her.”
“I thought girls were supposed to instinctively hate classic golden girls. You did call her a bimbo..”
“I admit I'd be happier if Jose wasn't hung up on her. But that's another urban myth. Beyond the odd loner like Elsie, women hang together. Sisterhood wasn't invented in the 60's. Historically women looked out for each other and built the community while the hunters wandered around hoping for something to kill.”
“So why do you feel sorry for her?”
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