Clichéd Love: A Satirical Romance

by Lynn Galli

  “Vega?” a voice interrupted my reluctant insight.

  “Huh?” I replied eloquently and recognized the editor-in-chief addressing me. I shot up straighter in my seat and tried again, “Excuse me?”

  “How many interviews have you conducted?”

  I blinked, trying to bring my whole mind back into this meeting. “Dozens.” I wasn’t sure how many exactly. I’d culled through a lot of them.

  “Two dozen, four dozen, what are we talking?” he persisted.

  “Several dozen.”

  “Perfect.” He smacked his hands together, glee stretching his mouth wide. He was impossibly handsome. Annoyingly so. Successful, rich, and handsome. Bet he didn’t suck at kissing.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d missed while I was cataloguing my clinic on horrible kissing that was probably—likely—most assuredly—my fault for not responding at all and just letting her mouth kiss all over mine. But I needed to participate here. “Not all are useable.”

  The glee faded. “Why not?”

  “Some weren’t telling the truth. Others would be too obvious.”

  “Can’t you fudge that a little?” His expression told me he had no idea that ethics even existed as a word much less a concept and should be applied to every article he published in his newspaper.

  “Fudge meeting at an HRC rally?” I waited while the editor to his left whispered an explanation for the acronym. “I could say they met at a political rally, but the rest of their story is tied to LGBT activities.” I was purposely using acronyms to irk him now. My lips were good at irking people. Kissing, no, they clearly sucked at that, but irking people, they had that down to a science. “Several met at church, and while it’s possible for gay couples to meet at church, none of the ones I interviewed did. So, your readers would probably guess correctly on those. I have a bunch of repeats of people meeting online, at the gym, at a bar, and the rest of their stories aren’t any more interesting.”

  “So how many usable?” he asked again.

  “The agreed upon amount from our last meeting.” Which had doubled the original number after the success of the test article.

  “Surely, you have more than twenty-four from the several dozen?”

  He must be bad at math like I was evidently bad at kissing. Which was worse? The kissing, definitely. A person could go through life with a calculator to solve being bad at math. “More. I need two articles week for three months.”

  “That’s twenty-four, like I said.”

  Maybe being bad at math was worse since several of his editors had to look away to hide their mirth when they realized how bad at math their boss was. A person could go through life without kissing, if she was good at other things like math and irking people. “Each article has two interviews.”

  He blinked as realization hit him. He’d just done really bad math in front of all his subordinates, and a freelance writer called him on it. “Yes, right, well, that’s why we’re here. We’d like to run an extra article a week for subscribers only and extend it a month, possibly two or three.”

  I jerked forward. It felt like I’d just done the bad math. “That’s a lot more work.”

  “With pay, of course.”

  Since he thought I’d agreed to this overload of work on a subject matter that I was already becoming bored with, I insisted, “We’ll need to discuss that before I agree to anything. The cost benefit analysis might not work out for you.”

  “We’ll pay you for each additional article. What’s there to discuss?” Typical EIC behavior. He felt he was doing me a favor with this assignment that hadn’t been his to begin with.

  “The rate we agreed to the last time you changed the parameters of this article series won’t suffice.” I had his attention now. He knew budgets and advertising rates and how that applied to each new reader he obtained. He didn’t know how to deal with freelance writers who weren’t desperate to write for him. Editors dealt with those types, not the guy in charge. “That rate was acceptable when I could readily meet those weekly deadlines and be done with the series in two months. Now you’re doubling down on the deadlines and increasing my time on this subject by months.”

  The editors of the various departments shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Normally they could greenlight articles based on their annual budgets, but this had taken on a life of its own. The EIC was making the decisions now.

  “We can bring in a staff writer to help.”

  I cut him off. “If you’ll remember, our contract states that I’ll be able to republish each article in a book that chronicles the success of this series. Good publicity for you and royalties for me. No one else can touch this.”

  Several of the editors sat back in their chairs. They shouldn’t be surprised. Freelance journalists were getting savvier with their negotiations now that so many papers had cut their writing staff. No longer would we just accept a standard pay-for-piece rate if we knew the piece could be reused.

  “Give us the room,” he barked, and all but my editor scurried from the room. “Why don’t you tell us what you want, and we’ll see what we can do. Mind you, we can always go back to our original plan of one article a week for two months and cut it off at any time. Your hope for a book contract would disappear with it.”

  I tried not to smile too widely, knowing he probably didn’t study the content of his online pages as meticulously as I had. “Your online poll shows how many people have voted on each interview pairing. I did my research on your circulation numbers before I started. The online poll totals are significantly larger than that. Of course, not all of them are subscribers, but your new plan hopes to convert many of those larger numbers, right?”

  “What’s it going to cost us?” He sounded defeated this time. He shouldn’t because he knew I was right. If the contest participants could increase their chances of winning by thirty-three percent with a subscription, they’d scramble to subscribe.

  I asked for what I thought would be acceptable but higher than just twice the amount. My workload would increase exponentially, even if I’d fibbed about the amount of usable material I had. Several of the more common stories could be published. I’d just wanted to use only the best when the required number allowed me to be picky.

  “Agreed,” the EIC said brusquely and held up his hand. “Provided you write the press release about the subscriber option and record an announcement to run next to the weekly poll.”

  As much as I didn’t like my face being part of my work, it would only help when it came time to getting a book contract. It made sense for me to do it, but it would extend my time here another day, perhaps two.

  Too much time in a hotel, contemplating the ugly truth of how bad a kisser I’d become in my old age.

  28 |

  She was walking some pretty thing out of the bar and to her car. She’d kissed me, badly—not entirely her fault, or maybe not her fault at all—and gave me the impression that the kiss was supposed to mean something, and here she was walking yet another trollop out of the bar. Okay, not fair. The woman, Blaine, I think, wasn’t a trollop, but she did get tipsy on the regular and left with a few women since I’d moved to town. But never Iris.

  Not that this should bother me. It was a bad kiss. I shouldn’t want to repeat bad kisses. I shouldn’t want to kiss my friend, putting an end to the friendship with all the kissing, badly.

  Yet, here, playing out in high-def, was Iris back to her usual practices of picking up women at the bar. Bad kissing didn’t deter her. She’d put a hiatus on picking up women during the Grand Opening weeks, staying until closing to support Lane. But the hiatus must be up. Probably because I suck at kissing. I felt like calling my last three ex-girlfriends and asking if they thought I was a bad kisser. It never felt bad at the time, but I could have been deluding myself, and it took a friend to shove it in my face. What else are friends for?

  Bad kissing and picking up other women, obviously.

  I’d been in the act of parking down the street from the
bar when I spotted Iris and her date du jour leaving together. Iris’s hand was on Blaine’s lower back, the other gripping her arm to help keep her steady on the five inch heels the chick was wearing to a mostly lesbian bar in a city where it rains three hundred days a year. My exit from the car was delayed by the complete disbelief that paralyzed me. I’d been dreading the discussion of the kiss—the off-the-charts bad kiss—with my friend who wasn’t supposed to want to kiss, however badly, her friend. Dreading it so much that I’d stayed in my wonderful new apartment for two days before finally sucking up my bad kissing lips and dragging the rest of me over to the bar for the c.o.n.f.r.o.n.t.a.t.i.o.n. Lowercase because uppercase would imply it would be filled with anger and maybe fists if we were animals who couldn’t control our emotions. But a confrontation, nonetheless. We needed a serious discussion about what the hell had brought on the kiss. An actual kiss, not just a grazing of lips to wish me a good trip. It was a hold my head and smash our mouths together in no way mistaking it for a friendly see-you-soon buss. I had to know what she was thinking. We could discuss the horrible technique at a later time. I just had to know what brought it on.

  Then I watched her walk out the door with Blaine of the Spiky Heels clan. Get into Iris’s car, and drive away, in the direction of Iris’s house. Maybe Blaine and her heels lived near Iris, and she was just giving her a lift.

  Sure. And I’m a good kisser.

  I cranked the ignition on my daily rental and pulled into the street. I’d lucked out on the flights and sat next to a few couples that produced unintended interviews. I didn’t have to get one tonight. A drive to clear my head might be the better option. One that would not go anywhere near Iris’s place to see if she’d taken Spiky Heels home.

  An hour later, after a drive up and down practically every street on Capitol Hill, my head wasn’t any clearer, and I found myself back at the bar. Sunday nights, Lane closed early for a deep weekly clean rather than a wipe down after service every other night. I’d have fifteen minutes before she locked the doors.

  “Hey, you’re back,” Lane greeted when I came inside. “How was the trip?”

  “Good, thanks.” My eyes wandered the nearly empty interior. She must have let the other bartender and server who usually worked Sunday nights go home early, but a couple of patrons were holding out till closing before choosing their conquest for the night.

  “Kitchen’s closed, but I can make an exception for you?” she offered.

  Clanking sounds came from the kitchen, telling me that Deb and her assistant chef were busy cleaning already. “No, thanks, just thought I’d pop in and say hi.”

  Lane stared at me for a long moment. “She left already.”

  “Who?” I tried for casual.

  “Someone drank a little too much to drive. Iris took her home.”

  My head nodded even as my mind fought to decide if I could take that statement at face value. Before the kissing—the awful, awful kissing—I would have smirked and been happy for my friend whether she was really just taking her home or “taking her home.” Now the kissing screwed with my head. When I kiss someone, I don’t want them to turn around and take someone else home days later, even if I didn’t like the kissing. Made me feel a little worthless to be forgotten that quickly.

  “Stick around,” Lane said as she went to settle the checks for the final customers. At least two of them had paired up, but the others looked like they’d decided it was better to solo it home.

  I studied Lane and wondered if she knew about the kiss. They were best friends. If Iris were a normal chick who liked to share with her besties, she’d have told her that bit of news. But Iris wasn’t a normal chick. Neither was Lane. I certainly wasn’t going to tell her, and not just because I’d probably have to admit to being a bad kisser because of how appalling the kiss was and all.

  After checking the bathrooms were free of horny patrons, Lane threw the bolts on the front door and turned off the Open sign. She went to the first table with a disinfectant towel to wipe it down before flipping one of the chairs upside down and onto the table top. I reached over the bar top to the pile of cleaning towels and grabbed one to join her. She had a crew that came in for the bathrooms and floors every morning, but she and her staff cleaned behind the bar and the kitchen equipment themselves. Most nights it only took a half hour, but on Sundays, they did the deep clean.

  “I wasn’t hinting for help when I asked you to stay.”

  “I know,” I said, even though I didn’t know why she’d asked me to stay.

  “Thanks.” She worked on the chairs, leaving the tables for me, and stayed silent for longer than most would be able to handle.

  “How’d your week go?” I asked a general question. It could refer to her bar take or her personal week or what she and Iris did.

  “Good.” She reached up and pulled the band from her messy bun. For a moment, the shoulder length, sable hair fell free until she swept it back up into another bun. I usually liked the hair-down look for women, but with Lane’s longer jawline and chin, keeping her hair knotted at the back worked well with her features. “Saw the post you put up today. Thanks for mentioning the bar again.”

  I brushed off the gratitude. “It’s as beneficial to me. Especially now.”

  “Did something change?”

  “One more article a week and for longer. I won’t have time to travel to many other places to collect the stories. If I post that I’m parked in your bar and want tourists with good stories to mosey by, the interviews will come to me. I’m tired of chasing them.”

  “Hope it works, and not just for my sake.”

  “Me, too.”

  We finished with the tables and chairs and moved back to the bar where I worked on cleaning the barstools and she emptied the shelves for cleaning. Silence stretched, except for the occasional clanging and chatter from the chef and her assistant in the kitchen as they cleaned. My curiosity finally got the better of me.

  “Something on your mind, Lane?” I crossed my fingers that she hadn’t been asked to give me the brush off. I’d just gotten settled here. I liked Lane and liked the bar and didn’t want a stupid kiss to end what I had with Iris.

  “She won’t be coming back tonight. She doesn’t need to anymore.”

  Blinking, I tried to assess what she’d just said. I knew who the she was, but was Lane saying that Iris usually came back, and why wouldn’t she need to anymore if she did usually come back? Or did Lane think I was pitifully waiting around, helping her clean, just for the off chance the woman who was known for one-night stands would come back and pick me for one night?

  “I wasn’t expecting—need to?” I decided to go with the assumption that Lane didn’t think me a pining loser.

  “She’s finally free to do whatever she wants every night.”

  That told me nothing. “She wasn’t before?”

  Lane sighed and went to the kitchen door to say a few parting words to Deb and the assistant. She waited for the back door to slam and the lock to throw. Handing me a stack of serving tins filled with cut lemons, oranges, cherries, and mint leaves, she brought out the cling wrap and turned to wipe down the back bar.

  It was another full minute before she spoke again. I nearly cut my finger on the cling wrap box trying to free a section when she said, “I was attacked eight months ago.”

  Without needing to clarify, I knew what she meant by attacked. For someone like Lane and me and many other women who weren’t overtly feminine, attacked was an easier word to say. My body pushed against the stool’s backrest. A cold chill swirled through to land in my stomach. Jesus, Lane.

  Her eyes glanced at me from over her shoulder as she continued to work. “I was thirty feet from my home. Thirty feet. I’d taken that same route home from work every night for years.”

  I kept my eyes trained on her but went back to fighting with the cling wrap box to keep my hands busy. I’d once written an article on the prevalence of college campus rapes and spoken to many women about
their experiences. Making platitudes or sorrowful sounds didn’t help matters. With someone like Lane, she might just stop talking.

  “It wasn’t something I wanted everyone to know, but I couldn’t keep it to myself. I had…a broken nose, fingers, ribs, and visible cuts.” Her eyes shot me a quick glance again. “I couldn’t cover them all when I went to work, and my partner talked, so everyone eventually found out.”

  My eyebrows rose. She didn’t have a partner when we’d moved her from her stark apartment to the newly renovated one upstairs last week. She didn’t have a lot of anything, really.

  “She left me.” Lane read my mind. “Couldn’t handle the thought of…Anyway, Iris would show up at closing every night to walk me home. She was usually here to hang out most nights anyway. But this…she supported me in the best way she knew how. She didn’t keep asking me how I was doing. She didn’t tell me how to feel. She didn’t try to placate me by saying my feelings were justified. She was just Iris, and she treated me like I was me, not someone different because of what happened. The only change she made was to make sure women in the bar wouldn’t walk home alone. If they weren’t driving or getting a ride, she’d escort them and come back after. If she left with a date, she’d still be back for me at closing. Every night. She never once missed. I hated that I felt so much better for it. Hated that I needed it, even if it cut into her dating and social life.” She let out a shuddering breath. “She’s got her off duty cop friends walking the area on weekends, keeping it safer. They rotate weeks, but Iris is always on.”

  Because Lane wasn’t the only one. And he hasn’t been caught yet. She didn’t have to say it.

  “This job, working toward saving for this bar to take it over in a few years when Charlie left, was the only thing I focused on. It kept me going. When I thought I’d lose the chance to own the bar, I floundered. Iris didn’t leave my side for two days until I got it together.”