Clichéd Love: A Satirical Romance

by Lynn Galli

25 | Pat & Marlowe

  A hand came down and clamped onto a hairless forearm. Completely hairless and not attached to a baby. I’d never seen one before and certainly didn’t think I’d find the first on a grown man. Perhaps he was a champion swimmer or bicyclist. Or a different species from a planet filled with hairless people who swam or biked competitively.

  A voice interrupted my deliberation of the arm hair versus no arm hair argument. “We should back up,” Marlowe, the owner of the clamping hand, said for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past three hours.

  Oh, goody. Another excruciatingly long backstory of a backstory of a backstory. I’d gotten all I needed in the first half hour, but these two loved adding unnecessary details and offshoots and anecdotes and any manner of conversational tangents that had nothing to do with the point of the story.

  “Actually,” I began but got cut off by Pat, who’d already taken Marlowe’s suggestion and began at the absolute beginning of time on the surely thousandth tangent of the night.

  My eyes surreptitiously made a break for it, wandering the interior of the bar. It was odd not seeing Riley and her group over in what was now the new dance area instead of crowded by pool tables only they’d used. Moving the tables upstairs and making it a full game room had increased the usage and kept the celebratory noise to a minimum.

  My eyes jerked to a stop when I saw Iris leaning against the bar. She’d left two hours ago with some dark-haired woman. Not someone tipsy that Iris would help into a cab. This was a completely sober, fine looking woman that she’d gone home with. I’d watched it happen as another diversion from the backstory quagmire I’d been stuck in at the time. What was she doing back at the bar? Again. This was a bit of a pattern for her. Fourth time I’d seen this very thing. Did she take them home, have quick sex with them, and come back? Take them home, decide not to have sex with them, and come back? Take them home, leave them at the door, and then come back?

  “…if he hadn’t opened that door? Can you believe it?”

  Huh? Oh, right, we’d backed up to go through some activity that in some way was responsible for the thing that brought them to the other thing that again led them to an event that brought them both to the same town where they ultimately met in the waiting area of a tire shop of all places. Couldn’t for the life of me understand why walking through a door twenty years ago—sixteen years before he met Marlowe—had anything at all to do with how they got together. Not that I would ask. They’d have me here another three hours.

  “Amazing,” I said in that tone that any socially versed person knew was meant to wind down a topic. Pat’s mouth opened to say more, probably a story of when he was in the womb and somehow knew that he’d find Marlowe thirty-three years later, but my sudden stand from the table prompted his jaw to snap shut. “It’s been wonderful chatting with you. Thank you for your time and the great story.”

  “Oh, well, yes, yes.” Pat stood and shook my hand.

  I scooped up the notepad and left before they could ensnare me in story quicksand again. I probably should have headed outside to make sure they didn’t find me for their second wind, but I couldn’t resist saying goodbye to Lane and Iris first.

  “How long did that last?” Lane asked as she lifted a beer glass in question.

  I waved off the offer and nodded hello to Iris. “Honestly. At one point I wanted to say, ‘Listen, I’m forty-six. I’m pretty sure my life expectancy won’t extend past this story.’ But I wasn’t able to string that many words together before one of them started talking again.”

  They laughed as Iris gave me a questioning look. “Are they making the cut?”

  “Met in a tire shop. Not exactly exciting, but unique. I’d say it’s a damn good chance.”

  “They can be boring all they like as long as they keep downing beers like glasses of water after running a marathon,” Lane commented before walking two more beers over to them.

  “She’s grateful, you know,” Iris said, her eyes tracking Lane. She was dressed nicely again. Not the fancy suit tonight, but slacks and a button up shirt over a clingy tank. Different boots, black, a little dressy. I wondered if Lane owning the bar accounted for the constant upscale dress code Iris was sporting.

  “About?” I asked.

  “You, your social media efforts, having you conduct your interviews here. A few people have come in and asked if you’re around over the past two weeks. You’re a draw for tourists and locals alike now that your articles are coming out on a regular basis.”

  It felt good to know that Lane was benefiting from something I’d posted on social media. It felt really good that Iris noticed it as well. “I always wanted interviews to come to me. Think I could get them to just show up at my apartment?”

  “You’re joking, but I think you’re underestimating your popularity.”

  “I’m glad my laziness is getting Lane some more business. How about that?”

  Her smile flashed bright. “Are you sure you’ll have time to help with the move tomorrow?”

  “Happy to help.” As part of the investment deal, Lane was moving into the newly renovated third floor apartment upstairs. She’d pay rent on both the apartment and the bar, while Helen’s sister owned the building as an income producing capital asset. That was the extent of the deal. No demand for equity or co-ownership in the bar. It was a good deal for both, but Lane got more out of it. Helen assured me her sister made these kinds of beneficial deals when she or Helen had a personal stake in the investment.

  “Thanks. She hasn’t had much free time to pack since taking over the bar.” She considered me for a moment. “What about your move? You really don’t need any help?”

  I was also benefiting from my friendship with Helen in more ways than just having a good friend. She offered to let me lease the vacant apartment she and her sister owned next door to her place. They’d been using it as a vacation home for friends. She would rather have someone she liked renting the place than dealing with time-consuming guests. I’d be moving in at the end of next week when my executive rental lease ran out. “Right now, it’s just me and my suitcases. I’ll be shipping stuff from my storage unit in Chicago, but it’s nothing big. Thanks, though.”

  She assessed me, trying to make sure I wasn’t playing down my need for help. “You staying to eat?”

  “I’ve got to type up my notes tonight before I slip into a coma remembering this story.”

  She hopped off her stool. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “That’s okay. You look comfy here.”

  “I didn’t see your car in the lot.”

  “When you came in the first time or the second?” I asked, testing whether or not we could broach this subject without her biting my head off again.

  Her lips twitched. “Both times.” She paused to run her eyes over me, contemplating.

  I wondered if she’d finally admit to having had a nice evening in the company of the woman she now knew I’d seen her take home. She’d deflected all previous allusions to her dates. It didn’t matter who was asking. Even Lane, but with my question, she knew I knew she’d left with someone tonight. She might let a tidbit slip.

  “You’re parked on the street and not near the bar. Let me walk you, please.”

  Then again, she could completely ignore the topic of her date tonight and go for that caring thing she does so well. “I’m fine, thanks,” I assured her.

  “Are you thinking your rep will be ruined if people see you leave with me?”

  My grin flared. At least her sensitivity on the subject had waned. “I won’t be leaving with you. You’ll be leaving with me.”

  I turned and made her follow me if she insisted on the escort to my car. A glance back caught her matching grin.

  26 |

  My tennis game was failing me. All summer I’d handily beaten Iris with my serve and accurate ball placement. Her powerful forehand and athleticism kept her in most games, but until today, she hadn’t stood a chance of winning a match.

/>   “Today is the day I deliver that promised spanking.” Iris’s teeth gleamed at me from across the net.

  “You’re having the game of your life, sister. Live it up. It may be the only time you beat me.”

  “Ha!” she declared with the fierce ball strike down the line for a winner.

  Applause sounded from the court next to us. The four women playing doubles had stopped their match to watch ours. The charmer across the net soaked in their applause and cheers over the next fifteen minutes to close out the third set 7-6. She broke out into a highly inappropriate victory dance and took a lap gathering high-fives from the spectators as they all giggled and swooned at her antics.

  After ample time signing autographs and posing for photos with her fans, we started walking back home. “Feeling okay? Need a piggyback ride?”

  I laughed at her taunts. “Yeah, yeah. One win. That’s all I’m giving you.”

  “How’d the date go last night?”

  My step faltered. Just the other night I’d tried to get her to tell me about her date. Not as directly as this, but she hadn’t gone for it. I wasn’t in the habit of telling friends about dates until they amounted to something. Last night’s did not fit into that category. Maybe this was her way of opening up the subject. “Fine. How’d you hear about it?”

  “Riley told me.”

  How did Riley know about it? I hadn’t asked Cheryl out at the bar. We’d run into each other at a bookstore and went to grab a bite afterward. Maybe she went to the bar after dinner and told Riley then. Why would she, though? It hadn’t been a stellar date. Although if there was one universal truth in the lesbian community, it was that dating gossip spread like a cold in a kindergarten class. Riley telling Iris seemed deliberate, not gossip. I’d need to shut down that protective thing she felt with me. It wasn’t appreciated or welcome.

  “Wasn’t a good date?” Iris pulled me back from the rehearsed speech I was preparing for Riley.

  “It was fine.” It was. Just that, fine. The few times we’d spoken in the bar, Cheryl was intelligent and amusing. At the bookstore, she was interesting. Then we went to dinner, and she suddenly began working off a dating checklist when she wasn’t focused on the things only she liked. “She’s nice. Not for me, but that’s what dating is for.”

  “Anything in particular?” Iris switched her tennis racket to her other shoulder. A movement that looked casual, but something in her tone rejected nonchalance.

  “We talked about shoes for a long, long time.”

  She laughed and nudged my shoulder. The casualness was coming back. “How long?”

  “More than a full minute.”

  Iris brought a hand to her stomach and doubled over, acting winded. “A whole minute? Just on shoes? How did you survive?”

  “Listen,” I started in a fake bothered tone to get her to stop the fake winded act. “One minute on shoes is enough to tell me she’d be overly concerned with the fact that I only own four pairs. She’d probably worn four pairs that day alone.”

  We turned onto Pike and had to dodge pedestrians for a block until we traversed over to a less populated street. I thought we’d moved on until Iris asked, “Just saw her and had to go for it, huh?”

  The needling seemed a little intense this morning. She and Lane still gave me a hard time about Greer, but this felt like something else. “Cheryl’s nice. How well do you know her?”

  “She’s FBI. Worked with us on a couple of internet fraud cases. Good agent, nice enough. She doesn’t really do the bar scene, but her friends drag her out every once in a while.”

  “You never dated?” It just slipped out. I hadn’t known I was curious about that, but apparently I wanted to know if Iris found Shoe Lady interesting.

  She flashed a cheeky smile. “Never date anyone in law enforcement.”

  I grinned back. “Do you warn all of your potential dates off you, too?”

  Her hands spread out innocently. “I’m not in law enforcement anymore.”

  “Which leaves you free to date indiscriminately?”

  “Oh, I discriminate, all right.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed that, having watched her leave the bar with all manner of women over the last two months. I knew several were just to get them into a cab or a ride home because they were too drunk for anything else, but a handful of others had to have been dates. “Sure you do.”

  “So? It was just the shoe thing, huh?”

  “Of course not.” Although it was a big flashing signal that we wouldn’t be compatible in other areas. “There was just nothing there between us.”

  “Friends, then?”

  “Doubt it.” I didn’t have enough opinions on shoes to interest Cheryl.

  “Hmm,” she murmured as we turned onto the block that housed my apartment building.

  “What?”

  “You don’t stay friends with exes, do you?”

  I turned my head fully to study her and nearly banged my tennis racket into a light pole on the street. “How would you know?”

  “Just figured you’d be like me on that. All or nothing, right?”

  “Yes.” Where was she going with this? And why didn’t she sweat as much as I did? My dry-wicking exercise top wasn’t dry-wicking fast enough. Hers looked like she’d just pulled it out of the dryer. In fact, her only usual sign of overexertion was a red face and failed wispy hair. Perspiration occasionally. I had to bring a towel with me to these matches. She’d just pat her brow with the bottom of her shirt for three seconds and be done. Ruffle the wisps a bit and all was back to normal. Truly annoying.

  “Any other prospects?”

  My head shook, ponytail sweeping back and forth across my still damp back. I couldn’t wait to jump in the shower. Defeat made me more aware of my perspiration habits. I didn’t dwell this much in victory. Or perhaps it was her needling that ramped the awareness back up. “I’m good for about one first date a month.”

  “What’s your conversion rate?”

  I laughed. Only someone who scored as much as she did would use that kind of language. “I hope you’re asking how often I get to a second date, not how often I get lucky with a first.” Her hands came up to accompany the sly grin. “My last second date was more than six months ago. I don’t usually date if I’m not going to be around for a while.”

  “But now you’re sticking around, so time to start dating again?” She turned and faced me outside the entrance to my building.

  “What’s up?” I waved two fingers between us. “Why so interested? You want to share your notes on the women at the bar with me?”

  A flicker passed over her expression before it rearranged into her usual blandness when people tried to tease her about her bar exploits. “What women?”

  I did the imitation of someone gasping for air this time. “For serious? You leave with someone more often than not.”

  Her eyes clouded. “Not everything is how it looks.”

  “Remember, judgment-free zone.” I moved my hand in a circle around us when it looked like I might have touched on that one nerve she had. Her face was getting red again. Not as much as when we were playing tennis, but red enough to let me know she was expending energy on this conversation. She’d started the conversation. She shouldn’t be getting upset about it. “You’re the one riding me about dating.”

  “That’s because—” she broke off, pushed out a loud breath, and turned away. When she turned back, she repeated, “That’s because—” And she broke off again.

  Then her hands reached out and grabbed my face, dragging me to her as she stepped closer. In the next instant her lips were on mine. Or over mine, and for that first moment, other parts near my lips as if she wasn’t quite sure where lips were situated on a face.

  To say the kiss was unexpected would be like saying it was hot in Death Valley. It just was. Unexpected and shocking and stunning and staggering, which was why I pretty much just stood there, dumbfounded with her lips moving over mine and the other near-lips parts
of my face. It was all the things a kiss was supposed to be: soft, giving, pliant, and provocative. And one thing a kiss wasn’t supposed to be: not good.

  Really, really not good.

  She pulled away and searched my eyes. I’d always liked that part of a first kiss, the pull away and searching of eyes to make sure the kiss affected her as much as it did me. This time, the searching only lasted a second before she made some mumbled sounds, picked up her dropped racket, and practically sprinted away. In five seconds, she was turning the corner at the end of the block. Another five seconds, and my senses finally returned.

  Huh.

  27 |

  Daydreaming was infinitely harder to accomplish with distractions. Arguing editors made for a mighty fine distraction. Nearly every editor and marketing executive on staff at the paper were assembled around the conference table, discussing what to do with my article series. Normally being called back to HQ for a meeting would have been intimidating, but the articles had increased readership by double digit percentage points in only three weeks. Anything that brought in new readers these days was considered a windfall. Hence, my required presence at this meeting, nearly three thousand miles away from where I wanted to be and where my mind still lingered.

  She kissed me. Full-on kissed me, and it was not good. Bad, really. A bad first kiss. Not that there would be other kisses, but this was my first really bad kiss with someone I wouldn’t think it possible to perform badly at kissing. In college I’d suffered through a few sloppy drunk kisses, but never as an adult. I might have liked kissing some women better for their technique or if feelings were involved, but feelings were involved here. Not romantic feelings, at least I hadn’t thought so, but she meant a lot to me. The kissing should have had some emotional component to elevate it to a higher status. Should have been enough to mask any discomfort at kissing a friend rather than a date. But the clash of lips, scrape of teeth, mismanaged flick of tongue, and incessant pressure was just…bad.

  Okay, I’ll take fifty percent of the blame. More than fifty percent because I hadn’t known I was going to be kissed. No prep usually paved the way for awkwardness in kissing, so sixty percent of the blame. Well, seventy percent because, after the initial awkwardness, I just stood there in shock. Had I even moved my mouth at all? Oh hell, was I the whole reason it was a bad kiss?