Clichéd Love: A Satirical Romance

by Lynn Galli

  “What kind of player?” I didn’t plan to take her word for it, but she was intent on warning me like Adrian/Sawyer and Blake before her.

  “The kind that just needs to look at a woman and her skirt drops.”

  Iris must have some real game if she’s got three women telling me about her conquests. What I couldn’t figure out was why they all felt they needed to warn me. I don’t come across as delicate or innocent, by any means. They must feel they’ve made a connection with me after revealing so much of themselves and needed to play the protective friend.

  My eyes flicked back to the bar, but Iris was gone. A quick glance around and I caught her leaving with yet another beauty. Three nights at the bar and three different women taken home. She really must have game.

  5 |

  Mornings at the condo gym were pretty quiet. Flexible hours let me dodge most of the gym hounds in this building. Waiting until mid-morning assured no one else came by.

  The door opened behind me, causing my lips to twitch. Almost no one.

  “Iris,” I greeted without turning around.

  Her footsteps halted. Several seconds passed before her eyes found mine in the reflective surface of the machine to my left. “Vega.”

  She set her towel and water bottle in the holder of the treadmill beside the elliptical I was on. Finally standing rather than sitting next to her, I could size up her height at an inch taller than my five-seven. Wearing another pair of basketball shorts and an exercise shirt that clung to her fit torso, she looked like she could haul a grown man in a firefighter’s carry. Her arms had muscle definition, more so than mine. Mine were toned, defined even, but hers showed muscles even when not active. Not overdone weightlifter muscles, more like professional tennis player definition. Her thighs were the same. Exercise was important to her, while exercise allowed me to eat what I wanted.

  “You’ve been busy,” I commented on not seeing her in the gym until today.

  “I had some work.”

  I waited to see if she’d say anything else. She didn’t, so I told her, “Now you pretty much have to tell me what kind of work.”

  “Do I?” She grinned that grin that would be cocky on someone else, but self-assured on her.

  “Seems right after mentioning the work and all.”

  “Private investigator.”

  My laugh surprised us both, a sharp, almost bark. “And I’m a reluctant but brilliant surgeon, who’s secretly seeking my stern father’s approval because he’s an even more brilliant surgeon on the board of my hospital.”

  She blinked a few times before her lips turned up in amusement. “What?”

  “I thought we were trading typical lesbian romance themes.” I gave her my own amused smile. “Or maybe I’m a workaholic CEO, who has more money than whole continents, but I can somehow find time to woo a financially strapped, gorgeous lesbian, who is the guardian of her dead sister’s toddler, giving me that instant family I’ve secretly craved.”

  She was laughing now. “Read a lot of lesbian romances, do you?”

  “I read a lot of everything.” Goes with the whole writer thing. Nerd thing, too, but she didn’t have to know that about me right now.

  “I imagine you do.”

  “So, what do you really do?”

  “Private investigator.”

  “Good one.” I appreciated that she was trying to make light when I felt like smacking her at her inability to collapse under the pace she was maintaining. I thought I’d been putting in a good workout until she came along. I waited for her to break, give up on the joke. She didn’t, so I called her on it. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I do.”

  My chuckle turned into a cough because unlike the android next to me, I couldn’t catch my breath. Fingers touched buttons to lower the resistance and slow the pace for a conversation. “Have you ever, in your entire life, met an actual private investigator? Just by happenstance. Not someone saying she’s a private investigator to get chicks.”

  “I have and not to get chicks.”

  “At the weekly meetings of your association, PIs R Us?”

  The tease brought out a grin. “In my former work.”

  I gauged her expression. She wasn’t kidding, but that had to be one of the rarest occupations out there. Despite what a lot of mystery novels portray, private investigators spend the majority of their time taking photos of cheating spouses. She didn’t seem the type to hang out in seedy motel parking lots, hoping to catch a cheating spouse.

  What had she said? Her former work. Oh. “How long were you on the force?”

  Blue eyes widened, and those lips quirked up again. “What makes you ask?”

  “I know very little about the PI biz, but I do know you can’t get a license without many, many hours of investigative work. It’s almost impossible to get them outside a police department. Same with the military and the flight hours needed to become a commercial pilot.”

  “Research?” she guessed, looking even more impressed.

  “I do a lot when I’m not reading a lot.”

  “You’re right. It’s easiest to get your license after being a police detective.”

  A million questions came to mind, but I wasn’t interviewing her. I was getting to know her, so I started with the most obvious. “Why did you leave the force?”

  “I put in my twenty-five for the full pension, and it was time.”

  “What division?”

  Her head tilted, and she gave me a long look. A police detective look, meant to get me to open up without her having to talk, to bend to her will, to slip up and confess. I didn’t do any of those things. I just waited until she had to answer or tell me to go to hell.

  “A few. I was a rover at first, so I had a taste of everything.”

  A rover by choice or more probably because twenty years ago when she first became a detective she might have been the only female detective in her division. No one would have wanted her permanently on their squad. I could ask, but that would be better saved for when we were the friends she promised we could be. “And your favorite?”

  Her eyes flared momentarily. She was pleased by my question. I wanted to know why, but I could wait on that as well. “Fraud.”

  My mind sifted through all the other possible departments. Any detective who worked homicide would have named that. Robbery had to be a close second, but she liked fraud. Fascinating.

  “You’re surprised.”

  My eyes widened. No one could read me that quickly. As journalists we’re paid to be neutral. Blank expressions were our default setting. “You said you roved, so I’m assuming you’ve worked the more…”

  “Prestigious?”

  “Yes, and you chose fraud. It’s interesting.”

  “Not really.” Perspiration beads finally began to dot her forehead and neck, dispelling the earlier android theory. “Homicide is horrible, robbery can be shocking, narcotics is unsympathetic, missing persons is usually hopeless, and sexual assault is…unspeakable.”

  I swallowed and turned the elliptical off, walking through the cool down with no resistance. She’d worked them all, and she had an opinion about them all. I’d probably pick fraud over those, too.

  “Everyone else asks me about homicide or sex crimes. They like gruesome from afar.”

  “But I didn’t,” I finished for her, which was why she’d been surprised earlier.

  “No.”

  “Another thing you like?”

  Her eyes drifted over me. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Sure. You said you’d make a good friend. If you like some things about me, maybe I’ll get to find out.”

  She nodded, delight evident in her expression. “Great friend, I said. And you will get to find out.”

  * * *

  Her smile engaged. It was the only way to describe it. When people saw it, they didn’t just see it. They noticed it. They took it in and let it ignite them. It was probably on
e of the reasons so many women followed her home from the bar.

  “What?” Iris asked from across the net, halting her service motion.

  My eyes flicked back over to the women who finally shut the fence gate after taking their damn sweet time leaving the court next to us. They’d practically tripped over themselves as soon as Iris politely smiled at them on their way past our court.

  “Potent,” I commented.

  “My serve? Hell, yeah. Without it, you’d be kicking my ass.”

  That was true. She wasn’t as fast or accurate with ball placement, but her serve and powerful forehand were keeping her in this game. It wasn’t what I’d been talking about, though. She had potent charm. It would explain her success at the bar. Out here on one of the twelve public courts with women in cutesy tennis dresses wearing enough makeup to be televised, Iris and I looked out of place in our standard gym attire. These other women were pretty, damn pretty. If I had to guess, all were straight, all probably bored housewives, which was how they had time to be out here mid-morning on a weekday. I doubted any of them were writers or PIs with flexible schedules, but I probably shouldn’t put them on an episode of Desperate Housewives just because they looked like they could have been cast on that show.

  Comparatively, Iris didn’t hold up in looks. In fact, she looked rather plain when put in this backdrop. Stick her in a lesbian bar, though, and her looks, demeanor, and figure were striking. I didn’t compare to those women either, but my long blond ponytail gave me a girl-next-door look. With her short hair and muscular arms, Iris really didn’t fit. And yet, she was still attractive compared to these Stepford wives batting around tennis balls next to us.

  Comparatively? No, it couldn’t be that easy, could it? But it really could. And this was why I loved my job. I’d been thinking about this article for months now. Doing research and conducting interviews even before I left my staff position in Chicago. Then just like that, I had a better angle. An angle that the paper would flip over. That readers could interact with.

  “Now what are you smiling about?” Iris paused again after having won the last point while my thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Just found the angle for my articles.”

  She looked as thrilled as I felt. “Can you tell me?”

  “A competition.” It was that easy.

  “People love competitions.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Does it mean more work for you?”

  I swallowed as reality hit. Yeah, it would be more work. But worth it. I hoped I could endure listening to straight people talk about how they got together. It probably wouldn’t be much worse than all the clichés I’d been sitting through thus far. For comparative purposes, it would be necessary. I’d write two stories per article and let readers vote in an online poll on which couple they thought was gay or straight. Generalize pronouns, take advantage of all these unisex names, and hopefully prove that all this fear over gay marriage ruining the institution was unfounded because people couldn’t tell the difference between homosexual and heterosexual love stories. My editor would love it. I hoped the paper would as well.

  “You can handle it,” Iris encouraged. “Look at all this free time you have right now.” She waved her tennis racket around to indicate our current leisure time.

  “You’re right.” I didn’t need to tell her about the two hours spent writing this morning. I preferred to ease people into knowing about my nerdish tendencies.

  “You’ll find I usually am.”

  Had it been accompanied by a smug smile, I probably would have served a tennis ball right at her face. Yet, she maintained a perfect balance between arrogance, sincerity, and humor. For the first time in years, I knew it would be hard to walk away from this daily friendship when I left town.

  6 | Alex & Alex

  The couple sitting across from me could have been twins. Same short hairstyle, same minimal makeup, same popped collars on their polo shirts, same cargo shorts, same fanny packs, and same black socks with Birkenstock sandals. They even had the same name, and when they got married, one took the other’s last name. So now there were two of them in this world.

  They’d been talking so long I couldn’t discern their voices anymore. Together sixteen years, the longest of my couples so far, they talked in fits and spurts, taking up where the other left off as easily as if this were scripted. My head shook after almost everything they said. I had limited personal experience with long-term relationships. One lasted three years, but that was only because I was away on assignments most of the time. Had we been in the same town for the duration, I wouldn’t have lasted a year with her. It made envisioning sixteen with the same person a little difficult. I do know that I never, and I can’t stress how much I mean never, want to be in a relationship where the person cuts me off to fill in the rest of my story.

  “So, there we were on the courthouse steps—”

  “City Hall steps—”

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant—”

  “With thousands of other gay and lesbian couples—”

  “Waiting to celebrate history.”

  “Get legally married,” Alex One or Alex Two corrected the other. I’d long since forgotten which one I’d labeled as Alex the First. Oh, and another thing, if I’m getting hitched to someone for the rest of my life, I’m making sure that she has a different name. Think about it for a sec. Do you really want to call out your own name during sex?

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant,” the other Alex said.

  “Thousands of other couples?” I kept my voice even, not wanting to tip that I knew the number was closer to three hundred. Nor did I let on to my horror at the idea of standing in line with dozens of others to go through what most would consider a sacred event.

  “Thousands,” One repeated.

  “Maybe hundreds,” Two allowed.

  “This was what you’d always wanted for your ideal ceremony?” I was getting pretty good at keeping my tone judgment-free. My thoughts were a different matter.

  “Hell yeah,” One agreed.

  “Well, a big wedding would have been nice,” Two allowed, her eyes downcast.

  “You wanted a wedding?” I latched onto Alex the Second. I’d already heard a version of the courthouse steps story in San Francisco. I needed something a little different.

  “Well, sure. I’d always dreamed of a big wedding.” She shrugged.

  My eyes flicked to Alex One. Nothing in her expression told me she caught on to her wife’s wistful tone. I barely knew Alex Two, yet I was certain she was the type to want a wedding. They’d been together twelve years by the time they were able to legally marry in this state. She’d had twelve years to plan the perfect wedding. Eloping would not have been part of that plan. It worked for a lot of people, especially in this circumstance where couples wanted to one day tell their kids they got married on the first day it was legal. If I were the wedding type, I’d consider a City Hall ceremony as well. It was as good as any other place. But for a partner who wanted an elaborate wedding, maybe eloping wasn’t the best way to get married.

  “I’d wear a beautiful white gown, and Alex would be in a tux with the whole morning coat and top hat and everything.”

  Ugh. Something about a woman in a tux. Not that I’d be the one in the dress, but I definitely wouldn’t wear a tux. Suits made me look like I was playing dress up in my brother’s clothes. Luckily, I had the kind of job where I didn’t have to shove myself into jackets that did nothing for me.

  “But we made history, baby,” Alex One said.

  “No you didn’t,” I muttered and realized too late that it was loud enough to be heard.

  “Yes, we did.” She flashed challenging eyes at me.

  Which was why I didn’t back down when a gracious person would have. “Washington wasn’t the first state to legalize gay marriage.”

  “So?”

  “So, you didn’t make history.” Blank stares came at me from across the table. “Do Ver
mont and Massachusetts ring a bell?”

  “Well…” Alex Two looked at her spouse. “But…” Now her expression was one of dejection.

  “We made history, baby.” One’s arm came around her wife’s shoulders.

  “State history with a thousand others across the state,” I muttered at a much lower volume, which they both chose to ignore. It probably wasn’t a good idea to point out that Alex Two had been cheated out of her dream wedding by Alex One’s idea of self-importance.

  “And we’re living happily ever after.”

  As clones in some socks and sandals cult, but whatever. At least their shirt colors were different.

  “You sure are,” I agreed because I’d already insulted them without thinking and would insult them further by not adding them to my article. The midnight City Hall marriage license grab and group elopement with several other couples would make it too clear that they were the lesbian couple in the story. If I worked hard I might be able to piece together enough of a story without mentioning the details of the elopement to include them. I should give that a try because their clonelike appearance was starting to appeal. It would be so much easier to have my partner’s outfit for the day dictate what I’d be wearing.

  “There now, gumdrop, she’s listened to hundreds of couples and agrees that we’re living something amazing,” Alex the First told her

  Dozens, but exaggeration was Alex One’s superpower. I clicked off my recorder and shut the cover of my notebook. “Thanks for your time and sharing your story with me, Alex.” I shook One’s hand and turned to Two. “Alex.” She felt a hug was necessary.

  They went up to the bar after more pats on my arm and back as they were leaving. I needed a drink but didn’t want to follow for fear that Alex Two would launch into another “cute” story about her wife. A wife who had completely ignored her wishes for a big wedding and dragged her down to a government building to stand in line in the cold, dark, and probably wet night until after midnight when they could be shuttled through, one couple after another, and given an impersonal “ceremony” just to make “history.”