Clichéd Love: A Satirical Romance

by Lynn Galli

  When I retook my seat, Iris nudged my shoulder. “Not to your taste?” Her eyes cast over the group and lingered on Greer.

  “Wasn’t my objective for the night.”

  Her gaze came back and ran over me, efficient and appraising. “Focused, secure, I get it and like it.”

  “Aren’t you the same way?” My curiosity got the better of me. She didn’t appear to discriminate in the women she took home from the bar, but I knew I wasn’t seeing everything.

  Those eyes studied mine for a long time. “We do have that in common.”

  I felt my lips twitch into the start of a smile. Wouldn’t be examining why that response made me feel so good anytime soon. I’d just enjoy the shared moment.

  13 | Lee & Emerson

  Halftime at Key Arena generated a carousel of lesbians. That might be a slight exaggeration, but pretty much everywhere we looked women were holding hands. They were mixed among families, fathers with daughters in basketball jerseys, kids with painted faces, and basketball fans in every variety, but the carousel of women who loved other women was impressive. I didn’t remember this phenomenon at my first WNBA experience in Chicago.

  When the couple of the night suggested we do the interview at the game, I was hesitant. Halftime wasn’t that long, but they assured me they’d stay if needed. Iris volunteered to go with me to the game, so even if the interview tanked, we’d have a good time. She was currently chatting with some women she knew in the makeshift club area outside of Section 110 after she’d secured one of the few tables for me. It had taken a dose of her customary charm to get the couple she knew to give up a table for my interview, but it was worth it.

  Lee was a pretty pixie type. Her spouse, Emerson, was a long-limbed androgynous beauty. They were suburban soccer moms now, but they’d been circus performers when they met. Honest to goodness, circus performers. My mind had gone to lion tamers or elephant riders, but theirs had been the human circus variety, twirling on hanging drapes and lines, swinging, lifting, and stretching into unnatural positions. An aerial ballet. They’d lost some of their muscle tone, but both still looked like they could grab anything that dangled and get right back into their routine.

  They spilled their story in ten minutes, concise and lovely. One of the few couples that had taken their time to fall in love. So far, the majority of my stories were about falling into bed, then mistaking those feelings for love. This one was nicely paced and set in the backdrop of traveling, performing, and high drama among their circus mates.

  Surprisingly the story had been free of clichés, which I was learning to appreciate more and more as I talked to every couple. Other than moving to the suburbs, having two point five kids, and buying Subarus, they had an imaginative story.

  “For me it was love at first swing,” Lee admitted and a cute blush took over her cheeks. Together over ten years, and she still blushed when she talked about her partner.

  Emerson laughed and snaked an arm around Lee’s shoulders. This was their date night, and I was grateful they’d chosen to spend part of it with me. “I was the lunkhead. Took me a little longer to figure out she was the one.”

  “She wasn’t convinced unconditional love could exist for her,” Lee told me.

  The smile I’d been flashing throughout their story faded as Lee dropped the first cliché of the night. Unconditional love doesn’t exist except from pets and maybe some mothers who can be blind to the actions of their children. But from a partner, no. Every partner’s love has conditions, whether she wants to admit it or not. Don’t change into a person I no longer even like ten years from now. Don’t cheat on me. Don’t disrespect me. Don’t harm me or the people I love. Don’t commit treason and force me to choose between backing you or giving you up to remain free to raise our children. Don’t drink the last of the milk and put the empty carton back in the fridge. Those are all conditions. Sure, some partners will overlook one or two of those conditions, but at some point, they will have had enough. I was fairly certain if Emerson flipped out and killed one of their kids, Lee’s love wouldn’t be so unconditional anymore.

  My head tipped back, trying to eject my critical thoughts. It probably explained why none of my relationships had ever worked out. I’d actually laughed in the face of a girlfriend who once said, “I like you just as you are.” Despite her actions to the contrary in our relationship—hinting that I should wear more makeup, secretly ruining some of my favorite clothes so she could pick ones she preferred, asking me to keep opinions on certain subjects to myself around her friends—the quote alone made me snicker. It drove me crazy when people quoted from movies, trying to be sincere but not realizing that they’d just quoted a movie instead of coming up with something on their own. Paraphrase, at the very least. Laughing at the girlfriend’s Mark Darcy impression hadn’t gone over too well. She dropped me soon after that conversation. Apparently she didn’t like my cynical side just as it was.

  “…in front of the whole crowd,” Lee was saying.

  My mind snapped out of the haze of cynicism to refocus. Something happened in front of a crowd that I hadn’t heard and probably should. “Excuse me?”

  “We were performers.” Emerson shrugged as if that explained what I’d zoned out on.

  “Could you repeat that?” I asked Lee, waving a hand at the end-of-halftime migration of fans going back to their seats.

  “I said that she asked me to marry her as we were taking our bows after a performance in front of the whole crowd. Got down on her knee and everything.”

  “Wow.” My eyes widened. So not how I’d want to be asked to get married, but I wasn’t a big public displayer of affection. A public declaration of love/marriage wouldn’t work for me. Not only that, the person was obligated to agree to the proposal to keep from looking like a jerk in front of a crowd.

  “I knew she’d love it, and I just couldn’t wait anymore. You know how that feels?” Emerson wasn’t really asking. She just assumed I did. What person our age wouldn’t?

  But I didn’t, and for the first time, I was a little sad about that. That was really why I was single. I’d never had that can’t-wait-anymore feeling with anyone. “Thank you so much for the story. It’s a keeper for sure.”

  Lee’s eyes brightened, and she went in for a smooch from Emerson. “We’ll make the article?”

  “You will,” I confirmed because they were two circus performers in love. Need I say more?

  “This was fun.” Emerson stood from the table. “We’d better get back to our seats before our friends think we decided to skip out early.”

  “The team is losing and telling our story has made me feel a little romantic.” Lee’s eyebrows wriggled at her wife.

  I laughed and left them to decide if they’d go watch the rest of the game or sneak home to get it on while the kids were over at their parents’ house.

  “Good story?” Iris came over and handed me one of the sodas she’d bought for us.

  I took a sip as we waited out the milling crowd, in no hurry to return to our seats. My eyes landed back on Iris. Casual tonight, she had on faded jeans and a t-shirt from a used sports equipment store in San Antonio where she’d worked in high school. The first time she wore it prompted all sorts of questions about her home town and why she’d moved here. She deflected most, as any good detective would, but I got enough to make me feel like we were on equal ground with what we knew about each other. My reporting skills had been failing me up to that point when it came to learning about her.

  I looked away from her threadbare t-shirt and watched Emerson and Lee duck through one of the section tunnels. “It was, actually. They seem sweet.”

  “I used to see a lot of them when they lived up near me. Now they’re in Maple Valley. I haven’t seen them in more than a year.” She pushed a hand through her hair. In the month I’d known her, sun exposure lightened it a full shade. The color could barely be qualified as light brown now. Not quite as blond as mine, but with more sunshine, the blond highlights could
overtake the brown completely.

  “I take it that’s far away?” I asked, not having studied the area before deciding that Seattle would be a good stop on this interview tour.

  She rolled her eyes at me. “I’m buying you a map. It’s a suburb southeast of the city. When I was on the force, I didn’t think anything of driving all over the region in a day. Now, I can’t be bothered to drive ten miles to get together with people.”

  I often felt that way. “Age, huh?”

  “Experience,” Iris commented.

  “Laziness,” I added.

  “Not worth it,” Iris agreed.

  As we started back toward the seats, I admitted, “Some people are.”

  Because I was pretty sure if I lived here permanently and Iris moved out to the suburbs, I’d make the effort to keep our weekly tennis date and hang out with her whenever I could.

  14 | Hunter & River

  Halfway through tonight’s story, I evaluated, yet again, the purpose of moving forward with this article series. Some of the stories were enjoyable, and I certainly appreciated meeting all these people and how generously they shared a part of their lives. I didn’t, however, enjoy discovering how judgmental I’d become in my old age. At twenty-two, I couldn’t have been this cynical. At thirty-four, I surely wouldn’t have rolled my eyes upon hearing yet another trite tale. At forty-six, I hear how a woman roughly my age seduced a direct subordinate, who was twenty-five years younger, and I want to shake her silly. The age difference was forgivable, not something I’d go for, but forgivable. Some people were old souls and didn’t fit with other people in their twenties. The direct subordinate thing, though, that needed to be stopped. Not only did it open the company up to lawsuits, but it was entirely unfair to the subordinate and her coworkers during and after the affair ended.

  “She directly reported to you at work?” I asked Hunter, trying not to show my disdain for that action.

  “She was my secretary,” Hunter proclaimed proudly. “I know, I know, the boss has an affair with her secretary, right?”

  Not really, but sort of right.

  “And you were married at the time?” I clarified.

  “Not legally.” She managed to look both bothered and relieved about that.

  Of course not legally, because we all knew when the state we lived in passed the gay marriage law or was swept up by the Court’s decision. She’d been with her former partner well before Washington legalized gay marriage, but I never believed that legality had anything to do with marriage. If people were living together, sharing finances, sharing experiences, planning for the future as a couple, they’re married. A legal contract shouldn’t make them any more committed.

  “You don’t mind me writing about how you got together?” I wasn’t sure she understood when she agreed to this interview what might be included.

  “We have a great love story,” River said dreamily, still in the I-can’t-believe-I-bagged-my-boss stage of their relationship.

  One that included adultery and violation of most corporate HR policies. Yeah, a love story for the ages.

  I looked at Hunter. “You were married when you hired River, developed a romance with her while still married, and offloaded some of her responsibilities onto her coworkers so she could accompany you on business trips. Then when HR found out about your relationship, you had River’s career path altered so you could continue to be together. Is that accurate?” I felt like I needed to confirm their story. They might feel blindsided otherwise.

  “I wasn’t married,” Hunter enunciated like I was a moron.

  “You were in a committed relationship with someone other than River, yes?”

  Her eyes swept away from me. She shrugged. “I fell in love, what can I say?”

  That you’re a cheater, but whatever. “I’m saying that I’ll be including those details in this story if you consent to continue.”

  Her eyes widened as she finally understood why I was being so particular. “Oh.”

  “But, baby, we didn’t do anything wrong. Sheila’s not mad or anything.” River patted Hunter’s bicep.

  Bet she was at the time. Never met a woman yet who’s okay with being cheated on.

  “Our story needs to be shared,” River whined.

  “You’re right, lambkin,” Hunter told her. “We fell in love. No one can blame us.”

  You, you mean. No one can blame you, I wanted to say. River probably hadn’t set out to make her boss break up with her partner. She just wanted a job, which she no longer had. She’s probably the secretary to some other middle-aged asshole who thinks about leaving his wife for someone twenty-five years younger.

  “Okay, then, thanks for sharing.”

  “When can we read it?” River asked, eyes glittering. She could practically taste the fame. I wouldn’t be spoiling her fame-seeking motives by letting her know that her name wouldn’t be published until after the series ended.

  “The articles are starting up in about a month,” I reported, not committing one way or the other. Likely, it would be included, if I could manage not to be too horribly Judgey Judgerson when I wrote it up.

  Slipping my notebook and recorder into my bag, I escaped to the bar. Lane was mixing seven drinks at once, and Iris was in the process of standing from a barstool as I sat.

  “Hey,” I greeted both.

  “The secretary affair? Don’t you have a million of those stories already?” Iris asked, perching back on the stool to delay her exit.

  “You could have warned me before I sat with them. And no, they’re only my second, but the first with the added adultery angle.”

  “Why would they want that advertised?” Lane asked as she shook some elaborate cocktail up by her ear. “Hunter’s been trying to convince people that she was already broken up with Sheila before she started with River. When that didn’t work, she said that Sheila left her first.”

  My eyes shot to Iris, shocked that Lane had spoken an entire paragraph, and shocked again that she’d shared anything about her patrons. She was normally pretty tightlipped.

  “Sheila’s a friend,” Lane explained when she caught my astonishment.

  Ah, that explained it. “I let them know that I’ll be writing about the whole story, not just the lovey-dovey part.”

  “Good,” Lane said and went to deliver the cocktails.

  “Where are you off to?” I turned back to Iris. She’d been about to leave when I first sat down. Wearing light grey pants, a blue cap sleeve shirt, those shoes from the other evening, and a hint of eyeliner, she looked ready to blend in again.

  “New hire background checks.”

  My face scrunched up. “Exciting.”

  “Easy work and pays the bills,” she said with an unbothered shrug.

  “Do you use one of those identity services?” Too much was on those sites. What wasn’t could be found on the applicant’s social media pages because they often didn’t realize they should take down anything questionable before applying for a job.

  “For the initial assessment, yeah. This is the surveillance part of it.”

  Aversion to the perceived evening of boredom dropped from my expression. Now it was all interest. I’d been right about her outfit. She stood out in this bar, but on the street, she’d look like any woman in business casual attire. “You’re following someone for a standard background check?”

  “It’s not standard. This firm likes to be certain about their new hires because they usually stick around until retirement.”

  “Smart, but expensive.” Really expensive if they’re employing a PI to surveil their applicants.

  “Software company. They can afford it, and the applicants sign off on background checks.”

  “Nice.” And it was. This was far better than following a suspected murderer. I knew she was good at her job, but being on her own to follow a guy who’d already killed one woman twisted my internal organs into a knot. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “You drove, right?”

 
“What’s this obsession with driving?” I teased.

  She looked away, the tease not landing as I’d intended. “It’s just not the safest area to walk.”

  “Oh,” I sat back, strangely affected by her concern. I hadn’t known it wasn’t safe. Compared to some areas I’d walked in Chicago at night, this part of Capitol Hill didn’t rate on the danger scale. “I walked.”

  Her eyes glanced to the front window. It was dusk, still light enough to make it home before full dark. “I’ll drop you home.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll be extra aware.”

  “I’m glad, but I’ll be driving right past your building. Let me drop you.”

  She wasn’t relenting or explaining this sudden concern. “Okay. Thanks.” We had a car ride for me to extract the story behind the concern. After all, I was a master interviewer. Then again, she was a master interrogator, so I might find myself on the stumped end of the conversation once again.

  15 | Eduardo & Norris

  Dude ranches that catered to singles. Did such things exist? According to the two guys slurping the most complicated cups of coffee across from me, they did. Meeting at a dude ranch was different enough, but a dude ranch catering to singles? Gay singles?

  “It was a gay singles vacation?” I clarified because if they just happened to be two single gay guys at a singles dude ranch, that would be pretty incredible.

  “Oh, yeah. Twelve hot guys roping horses and sweaty, sexy ab flexing.” Eduardo winked a dark eye and looped an arm around his partner. The partner didn’t look like he’d kept up his sexy abs, if he’d ever had them, but he was cute enough with a full head of thick brown hair. Eduardo’s black hair was thinning in a few places, but his sharp nose and sexy mouth took the focus away from his vanishing hairline.

  “There was plenty of the sexy ab flexing,” Norris confirmed, not bothered that his husband was beginning to drool at the memory.