by Scott Savino
Alone, I never mastered how to properly cook an egg. Sometimes I would hold the cool thing in my hand, let my fingers graze the small bumps on its otherwise smooth surface, and whisper to it, “Please don’t disappoint me.”Then I would tap it against the rim of the pan and gently pull it open so its guts spilled out and sizzled away.
I think I was too focused on getting it right, on the precision of cracking the egg. As soon as I’d get the egg into the pan I’d forget what kind of eggs I’d planned on making. Scrambled? Sunny-side up? An omelet? And then, despite my best efforts, it would morph into something rubbery, over cooked, or just plain ugly. Still, I never stopped trying.
That morning I put my mediocre eggs on toast. The Saturday sun was muted by my curtains and there was a comfort in the womb-like darkness. I wrote down my grocery list: milk, flowers to replace the dying marigold centerpiece, chocolate truffles for my after-dinner snack, and a carton of twelve eggs. I did make other things for dinner sometimes, but eggs reminded me of the chicken coop my parents had kept their whole lives. They had died in a car accident almost a year before, so I’d begun consuming eggs in an effort to consume that feeling of home.
The phone rang, a bee-buzzing sound that startled me. I let it ring, let it rattle my bee’s nest heart, wondering if it was a good call or a telemarketer, but not moving to get it.
The automated voice message played. It was a robotic, but feminine voice; the machine’s default that I kept instead of immortalizing my own tinny voice for anyone who called. After the uncomfortably brief beep, a honeyed voice came through the speakers.
“Hi, Georgia, it’s Marilyn. I had a lovely time yesterday and I don’t know if the day after is too soon, but I wanted to see if you had plans this weekend.”
She paused, so I steadied myself and answered the phone.
“Good morning, Marilyn,” I said, and she gasped.
“Oh, I didn’t expect—”
“Sorry, I was in the shower. But I caught most of what you said, because I was just drying off my hair before it dripped all over the kitchen floor.”
I ran a hand through my hair and could almost imagine it felt wet.
“So, um, is it desperate to call so soon?”
“Not at all. Would you like to go for a drive tonight?”
“Tonight? Definitely!”
“I can pick up you up at eight. Where do you live?”
“I’m the corner house on Bradley and Forest.”
“Great, I’ll see you then.”
“Bye, Georgia!”
I nestled the phone in its cradle and sighed. Now I had to pick out something to wear.
I walked upstairs to my room and eyed the closet of greys and blacks and dark blues. There was one pleated pink dress with white polka dots and a Peter Pan collar that my mother had given me for Christmas one year. I had never worn it, but as I laid my hand against the soft skirt, it felt like a good date dress. I took it off its hanger and laid it across the bed for later.
It looked like the chalk outline of a fifties housewife.
At the grocery store I picked up an egg carton and checked each egg for cracks. As I turned the eleventh egg over, a man with bad posture and impeccable hair sidled up to me and said, “Afternoon, miss.”
I dropped the egg in its spot and closed my eyes in frustration.
The man put his hands in his jean pockets and smiled sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You don’t frighten me,” I said, looking at him until he smiled again, this time out of discomfort.
“I just wanted to tell you that you look simply gorgeous in that dress.”
I looked down at my grey woolen dress. It had black buttons up to my neck and flattened my already flat chest, but it came down to a few inches above my knees so I imagined he was lost somewhere in my thigh area.
“Thank you,” I said, turning from him.
“Do you think maybe I could be bold enough to ask for a date?”
“I couldn’t possibly weigh in on that debate. I don’t know you.”
He let out a wild laugh and I caught his glance melting down my legs like sunscreen.
Bingo.
“More importantly,” I added. “I already have a date tonight, thank you.”
“Oooh, lucky fella—”
“Lucky she’s not a fella, maybe.”
His eyes widened and he stuttered, like every man realizing he couldn’t take everything for granted. “Lucky lady, then,” he finally managed. “Sorry.”
I wasn’t the kind of girl who got asked out casually, as if men were calling out my deli ticket number and it was just my turn to be picked up, so I imagined I wore a kind of Marilyn glow: an expectant joy this man wanted to have for his own.
It made me feel giddy.
“Enjoy the rest of your shopping trip,” I said, and then continued toward the cheese. I’d already decided on an omelet for tomorrow morning.
oOo
Marilyn’s bangs had the surreal ability to stay put even when she moved her head, which she did a lot while talking. I was fascinated, watching them out of the corner of my eye as if I could catch them in the act. She had just finished a story about a sleepover in eighth grade where a girl had cut Marilyn’s hair and kept it in a leather coin purse. I thought it sounded terribly romantic, but I had apparently misunderstood a few major points. I watched her reach behind her ear to feel where the scissors had nicked her and could just make out the pale pink line of a scar.
The automatic headlights blinked out, drenching us in shadow because it had been five minutes since I had parked in front of the beach and cut the engine. Dusk was yawning her way over the sky and several sets of parents corralled their kids off the sand and back to their cars.
“What about you,” she asked. “What was your school like?”
“I’m the cliché,” I said. “All girls boarding school.”
Her beautiful red lips drew open like theater curtains. “You’re kidding! What a dream.”
“It was and it wasn’t.” I could tell she wanted me to carry on, but my mind was stuck on whether that girl still had Marilyn’s hair in a leather coin purse.
“Did you get any action?” She rested her hand on my thigh briefly, but took it back.
The memories of girls came like postcards, lovely and brief. Touching a scalp hidden under strawberry blonde curls then tracing a line down the nape of her neck. Brushing against a knee that had a triangle of freckles; an accident the first time, but not the second or third. Kissing a dark brown wrist right at the crossroads of her veins.
“Not really.”
“Make something up for me, then.”
“Instead of making something up, we could make our own action.”
Marilyn smiled and leaned forward, but was abruptly pulled back by the seat belt. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I just ruined the moment with a lifetime habit of keeping my seat belt on even when we’ve stopped.”
She unbuckled it and I put a hand on her cheek. “You didn’t ruin the moment. You couldn’t.”
While we kissed, I wondered if my mouth was going to look like a crime scene. When we stopped and opened our eyes, her lipstick had barely smudged. I didn’t wear lipstick, so I didn’t know the mechanics, but that seemed like a small miracle.
“You’re the strangest person I’ve ever met, Georgia,” Marilyn said in a kind of dreamy voice that told me she meant it as a compliment.
“Not what every girl wants to hear after kissing someone.”
“Maybe not. I just mean it’s a delight to know you.”
“We just met.”
“It works like that with some people.”
I knew what she meant, though, and agreed.
“You know, sitting in the car like this, in the dark with you in that dress, I feel kind of like vintage lesbians.”
My laugh came out as a bark. “Thank god we’re not, though.”
“Fair enough.” She leaned over for another small kiss. “I do
n’t want to stop when we just got started, but I should get home. Early shift at the hospital. Could you drop me off?”
“Actually, I had a mind to just drive through the night and keep you to myself,” I said, trying to keep a straight face but unable to keep from smiling.
“Well if you’re taking requests, I’ve never been to Colorado.”
I started the engine and pulled back into the street. “We’ll start with your house. Colorado can wait for another night.”
We drove on in silence for a while, a comfortable peace warming between us as we watched the evening pass on the way back to her place. I knew I should simply let it be what it would be, but my brain and my mouth had different agendas.
“I’d like to see you again, if you want,” I said, knowing I needed to be more guarded.
But a smile cracked open on her face and I melted.
“I’d like to see you, too.”
I was floating on a high as I dropped Marilyn off, and she gave me a final chaste kiss before hopping out of the car and running into her house. It was reminiscent of movies I’d seen of teenage lovers with the bad boy bringing a nice girl home past her curfew.
Curfew. I’d forgotten what it was like to have a real job. Inheritance money had kept me above water while I did freelance work here and there. I was still flush with joy thinking about our next date, but I felt like an outsider as Marilyn disappeared inside to prepare for a day of work in the morning.
That night at home, as I combed my hair in front of the mirror, I noticed a small pink scar behind my ear. I turned my head to get a better look and touched a memory I didn’t have.
In bed I thought about meeting Marilyn the day before. In my pre-sleep weariness, it felt almost like a dream.
She was reading on a blanket in the park. Mrs. Dalloway. Her face was scrunched and focused. I knew I’d picture it all day and maybe the rest of the week if I didn’t stop by. When I walked over, my shadow draped across her and she looked up.
“You’re sitting in the best spot in the park. Mind if I share it?”
Marilyn looked puzzled, but amused. She patted next to her and said, “Sure, that’s why I brought a blanket this big.”
I sat crisscross beside her and I could sense her uneasiness, but not the threatened kind. Her fingers were caught between the pages of Mrs. Dalloway: a makeshift bookmark.
“Do you normally join strangers at the park?”
“You’re the first. I’m Georgia,” I added, putting out my hand for her to shake.
“Marilyn.”
“Now we’re not strangers.”
She grinned and set down her book, losing whatever page she was on. I liked the recklessness of it. She could have found a strand of grass or rummaged in her purse for whatever receipt she had probably used as a bookmark, but instead she decided to lose her place to find one with me.
As I asked about her reading taste, I noticed the telltale signs of interest: flushed cheeks, nervous wringing of her hands, a shyness that seemed about more than being a stranger. It made me feel warm and visible.
“Do you have plans tonight?”
“Not yet,” she said with a smirk, shifting her body to face me a little more. She probably hadn’t realized she’d done it.
“Come with me to the movies tonight. I’ll buy the popcorn and everything.”
“What are we seeing?”
“Whatever’s playing.”
We had grinned like coconspirators and arranged to meet at the theater. I got there early to order a bucket of popcorn, two sodas, and a box of Milk Duds. The experience in the darkness of the theater was innocent. No boyish attempts to put my arm around her. No making out in the back. We were just two pretty girls in the center seats of the center row, our hands occasionally touching as we scooped popcorn into our palms. I took more popcorn than I wanted to eat just for that thrill. It made my stomach feel tight, but I couldn’t stop reaching.
At the end of the evening, we stood by the curb, Marilyn stepping up and down while she theorized about the detective from the film. I had barely paid attention to the plot. Instead I reveled in the sensation of sitting next to someone who was there to be in my orbit. That kind of mutually enjoyed company was intoxicating.
When we said goodbye, I squeezed her hand and kissed her cheek, just in case. I didn’t want to overwhelm her and risk not getting another date. I chastised myself for even thinking ahead. It’d be easier if we went separate ways. How many fools had a good first date, craved more, and then selfishly set themselves on a path of self-destruction? It was better to preserve that first date feeling and move on. Otherwise, that pleasant stranger became close, tangled up in you until one day they were a stranger of a different kind: painful to peel off your skin.
But sometimes I couldn’t resist.
“I’ll give you my number and won’t ask for yours,” I said, and she handed me her phone. “Then I’ll know if you’re really interested. Also, it’s my home phone number.”
“Do people still have those?”
“It’s cheaper than a cell phone.”
“But what about your friends?”
I shrugged, wanting to change the subject. I’d be a lot less alluring if I admitted I didn’t have many friends to speak of. “I make it work.”
“I’ll call you,” she said with a wink, and I watched her skip down the sidewalk.
Now as I lay in bed, curled up in soft memories of our first date, I wondered if it was a mistake to see her again. It wasn’t long before the cordless phone on my nightstand rang. It was Marilyn, and I asked if she wanted to come over for dinner the next night. When I asked her what kind of eggs she liked, she told me to surprise her.
So, surprise her I did.
After a feast of four different kinds of eggs (because I thought I might be more successful if I was trying to impress someone) we sat on the couch with my legs laying across her lap.
She ran a lazy hand through my hair. “It’s so blonde, like the sun painted it.”
“I had red hair before this, you know.”
“Why’d you change it?”
“I don’t know, it felt right. My last girlfriend was the brightest blonde I’d ever seen, and when you look at something with love every day it can start to feel like yours, even when it’s not.”
“You definitely rock it. I’d love to see photos of you as a redhead, though.”
“Don’t have any.”
“None at all? Wasn’t it your natural color?”
“No. I’ve been all kinds of shades. And I just don’t tend to take photos of myself.”
“You’re so old-fashioned, oh my god.”
I leaned over and kissed the crook of her neck. “It’s endearing, don’t you think?”
She rolled her eyes, but laid her hand on my thigh. She brushed my kneecap with her fingers and said, “I like that little freckle constellation. It’s the cutest little triangle.”