Pillow Talk

I can't sleep.
Mmm?
I said I can't sleep.
Sorry, baby.
Don't be sorry. Just keep me company.
I am. I'm right here.
Yeah, but you're sleeping. Wake up and keep me company.
I am awake.
No, you're not awake.
I'm talking, aren't I?
Yes. But you could be sleep-talking.
I'm not sleep-talking.
Okay. I just can't stop thinking about today and how—hey, are you listening?
Mmm-hmm.
Really? Then what did I just say?
You think I'm sleep-talking.
After that.
After what?
Never mind.
Okay.
Okay? Okay? I said I can't sleep and that I wanted you to keep me company and you said you would and now you're sleeping and when I said never mind you said okay. You're so mean.
Alright, baby, I'm up, I'm up. What's on your mind? I'm ready to listen.
Forget it. I'm too tired to talk now. And besides, now I feel guilty for waking you up.
But now I really AM up. Look, I'm sitting up, my eyes are open, I turned on the lamp. I'm listening.
It's just that earlier today those kids at the mall were looking at me and laughing. I know I'm not as young as I used to be, but am I that hideous? I mean, I've put on a few pounds, sure, but...
Baby, don't you worry about that.
...and we're not having sex as much as we used to.
That happens with kids.
I know. Still, I worry that maybe you just don't find me attractive anymore.
Oh stop. Of course I find you attractive.
Really?
Yes, really. And I love you. Even though you worry too much. And even though you're too sensitive.
You're right. I am too sensitive.
It's okay. It's kind of endearing. Even cute sometimes.
Thanks. That's exactly what I needed to hear. Can we cuddle? I think I can fall asleep now.
Of course we can cuddle, baby. Anything for my husband. Good night.

Geesh. Ain't that JUST like a man?

Small Sacrifices

He didn't really want to go to the party, but he had agreed weeks ago, gambling on the possibility of a tornado or earthquake or a run-in with poison ivy to save him by the time the night finally rolled around. Anyway, was it fair for her to ask him for things when she was wearing that see-through nightie and standing in the doorway with the light on behind her? She knows I'll say yes to anything when she's wearing lingerie, he thought. In fact, that's how they ended up buying a pink couch instead of the black leather one he wanted. It's why they got a lhasa apso instead of a labrador retriever. It's even why they bought the little colonial three blocks away from her mother instead of the cape two towns over where his commute to work would be five minutes on foot instead of thirty-five minutes in traffic.

Oh well, he mused. Marriage is about give and take. And he could suffer through one party with her friends. He'd certainly dragged her to enough boring work events. And she'd always dressed perfectly, smelled great, impressed his bosses and flattered their wives. She even claimed to enjoy herself, which he knew to be a lie, but a lie that he appreciated and that made him feel like less of a vampire who sucked her will to live through countless evenings spent drinking weak cocktails, listening to stories about people she didn't know, politely deflecting the barely veiled sexual innuendos of the philandering vice-president of marketing, and tolerating random colleagues even he could hardly stand.

She's a good wife, he thought. And she had said there would be beer and food at the party. Bonus. And she had promised to wear that little silky red number to bed after they got home. Double bonus.

As they turned the corner onto the cul-de-sac, he saw a few other couples parking and getting out of cars and walking up to the house. They looked relatively normal. And even if they turned out not to be, he figured he would just keep his mouth full of whatever appetizers they served, and maybe even feign a hearing loss. Oh, that's too bad, they would say, as he would apologize and twist his head awkwardly in whatever direction would make him look as uncomfortable as possible. Left ear, right ear—the bad ear would always be the one furthest from the annoying conversationalist. How did it happen, they would ask with equal parts timidity and eagerness. I don't like to talk about it, he would say, but basically it was a bar fight. Sky diving accident. Birth defect. War injury. The result of sticking hot pokers in my ears and piercing my own eardrums the last time my wife dragged me to a stupid party. Did it matter? As long as he said it with a pained look of embarrassment, any story should deter even the most curious and chatty of guests. And if it didn't work on that one lonely, clueless, socially unaware single woman who seems to haunt every party, he would pull a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and shove it in his ear right then and there in front of her and God and everyone. In fact, maybe he should do it now before he even went in. A preemptive strike against banal smalltalk.

He pulled the car up against the curb and turned off the engine. He got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door to help his wife out of the car. She took his hand, and as she stood up, her fragrance followed her and filled his nose with vanilla and honey and that little smell of spice that he never could identify as anything other than just the smell of her. After all these years, she still made it for him. She turned to grab her purse from the car seat, and as he sneaked a peak at her rear end, he decided that she rocked a pair of tight jeans just as well now as she did back when they were first dating. She turned back around to face him, brushed something invisible off the front of his shirt, then reached her hands around his waist and pulled herself into him. Thank you for coming with me tonight, she whispered into his right ear. She pulled away just enough to brush his lips with hers on the way to his left ear where she whispered, I'll be the luckiest girl at the party.

On the way up to the house, he still shivered a little with the thought of her voice low and soft in his ears. He kept one hand gently against the small of her back, and with the other hand he reached into his pocket, grabbed the ballpoint pen, and tossed it into the street.

Call Me Elaine, If You Must

Another first date. She checks in the rear view mirror to make sure there's no lipstick on her teeth (none) then looks at the door of the restaurant to see who's there (him). She knows the staff and the menu and the quickest route to the door and can be home in less than ten minutes if this goes south.

They get their water and bread. He's relatively attractive for his age, and even though he is ten years her senior, he's held up okay. He never removes his suit jacket even though it's a lunch date and the sun is beating down on them through the glass. She decides this means he's either hiding sweaty armpits or a soft midsection. She feels a bit bad for him, but also thinks it might be kind of cute.

He's pleasant, courteous, generous. Comes from a pretty rough childhood, but has a positive outlook on life in spite of it, or maybe even because of it. She's impressed that he served his country and retired from the air force and now works for a non-profit. Kids? Nope, but still wants them. Good.

When she presses him about why he never got married if he always wanted to, he admits that he had married when he was twenty, but it had lasted less than a year. He's honest, she thinks. Pretty smart, too. And even though the waitress is slow and forgetful, he makes small talk with her, smiling and genuinely unbothered. Three hours they sit and chat and eat and laugh. The chemistry is so-so, but first dates are funny things, she tells herself.

So when he walks her to her car and asks her if she'd like to go out again, she says yes, and realizes it's because she can't think of a good reason not to. He hugs her, goes in for the kiss. She turns her head and he hits her cheek. They both pretend that's what they meant to do. Everyone retreats with dignity.

She hadn't lied when she had accepted a second date. In fact, it's not until she gets in the car that she realizes that she is NOT going out with him again. And she wonders if God will punish her with eternal singleness and childlessness for her shallow and Seinfeldian reason for rejecting him.

The first time it happened was over bread and dipping oil, and she had hoped it was a fluke. The second time it happened was when the salads had arrived, and she had teased him about it, secretly wishing he would take the hint. When it happened the third time, something inside her had clicked, and it was then that she had known--without even knowing--that he was not the one for her.

As she puts the car into gear and pulls out of her parking spot, she is at peace with her decision. Others could mock her, even criticize her, but she was NOT going out again with a man who says "Delish."

[Attention all Jerrys and Elaines! What's the dumbest reason you've ever turned down a date--or even broken off a relationship? Don't be shy. We're all friends here.]

The Nose on One's Face

[Note: It's definitely been a while since I wrote some pure fiction pulled straight out of the air. Critiques invited by all.]

Big nose. Actually, enormous nose. Big enough to store farm equipment in. The kind of disfigurement that makes you realize why some plastic surgery should not be considered "elective." Sure, God gave it to him, but couldn't one argue that God also gave us rhinoplasty?

Rhinoplasty. Now there's a word that doesn't exactly feel good spilling out the mouth. Rhinoplasty, he thought. "Rhinoplasty," he said aloud, and as he did, he felt heads in the waiting room turn toward him. He didn't need to look around to know that he'd slipped. He didn't need to see their faces to know that his voice had invited them finally take a good look at the monstrosity that had brought him to this place. He had felt their eyes on him when he had first walked in, but they were more discreet then, peeking over opened People magazines, pretending to stretch so they could twist their necks and hide their faces behind their raised arms, dropping things accidentally-on-purpose so they could stare up at him from the floor.

Pathetic, he thought. They are pathetic in their unsneakiness. They think I don't see them. Puh-leeze.

Pathetic, he thought. I am pathetic in my patheticness. I see them. I see them wishing they could get a really good look at me and burn the image of my supernaturally unnatural face in their brains so they will have an interesting story to tell to their spouses at dinner or to their coworkers at happy hour or to their neighbors at the block party about the circus freak they saw at the office where beautiful people go to be made more beautiful. Quidnuncs, he thought. I see them in their smugness, in their silent gratitude that they are, however imperfect, not as hideous as I am.

I see them. I see them see me. I wish I were unseeable, he thought.

He pulled the rim of his baseball cap down a bit. Checked to make sure his sunglasses were still on. Flipped the collar of his jacket up. Yanked his scarf into position so as to cover just a little more of his face. Pulled his iPhone out of his pocket, bent down over his lap, and pretended to be engrossed in whatever it is that keeps normal people attached to their portable technology. But I'm not normal, he whispered. I'm not normal now, but I will be. I will be.

He opened his email. Fourteen new messages since he had checked just an hour ago. All from women. Some he knew, some he didn't. Some old, some young. Some attractive, some super attractive. All of them out of his league. All of them asking him out, calling him sexy, making indecent proposals, describing what they would do to him if given the chance, professing crushes and infatuation and even love. But he knew they were all liars. The world is full of women who get off on mocking the ugly guy. Bitches, he decided.

When the nurse called his name, he didn't notice until the third time, and again, he felt the eyes of the room on him, silently piercing him with their pity, disgust, curiosity. For the last time, he thought. "For the last time," he said aloud, and he got up and followed the woman in scrubs from his old, pathetic life to the beginning of his new, normal life.

* * * * *

He never knew that when the door closed behind him, people in the waiting room shifted in their seats, uncomfortable with the thoughts and wonderings and imaginings that had started in their stomaches and been climbing into their chests and up their throats longing to burst from their individual and collective lips as they had stolen glances at the man in the baseball cap and sunglasses and flipped-up collar and bulky scarf. Everyone made subtle invitations for eye contact with someone across from them or next to them, eager to put words to the feelings they had been holding in silence out of courtesy and politeness.

A woman, unable to contain herself any longer, inhaled deeply, exhaled a sigh that was a curious combination of relief and arousal, then said it first and said it best and without the least bit of irony: "My God, isn't he positively gorgeous?"


* * * * Same Ending, Said Differently. * * * *

He never knew that when the door closed behind him, the waiting room filled with chatter. With the door closed behind him, those waiting in the waiting room finally turned--either to those they knew, or those they didn't--eager to speak the thoughts and words that were ready to burst from their mouths as they had been stealing glances at the man in the baseball cap and sunglasses and flipped-up collar and bulky scarf. With longing and arousal and not the least bit of irony, one woman said it first and said it best and the room agreed with nods and sighs and some licking of lips: "My God, isn't he positively gorgeous?"

* * * Logophiles, which do you like better? Help! Anonymous opinions count, too. * * *

Upon Learning of My Replacement

Sophia will be taking my place. Sophia. A girl I hate. A girl with hips that are too wide and thighs that rub together when she walks. A girl with saggy breasts in need of a well-fitting bra. A girl who wears different shades of brown during the daytime because it is safe and wears all black at night because she heard somewhere that black is slimming. A girl whose muddy dishwater hair is too long for her age and too frizzy all the time, as if it is in the perpetual state of growing out a perm. A girl who wears the same outdated shade of lipstick every day, regardless of the season. A girl who owns only two pairs of high-heeled shoes. A girl who thinks that an inch-and-a-half qualifies a shoe as high-heeled. A girl whose foot-fat squeezes out over the top when she wears these heels on the rare special occasion. A girl who thinks a special occasion is dinner at Red Lobster. A girl who I would pass by on the street without noticing, or would notice only to comment on how sadly unnoticable she is. A girl HE noticed. A girl--no, THE girl--he picked instead of me.

He's not very tall, but I spotted him in the crowd right away. He wasn't alone. But where was my replacement? Where was the dowdy, frumpy, marble-mouthed, moon-faced girl I had already decided she was? Obviously this was the re-replacement. But then he said, "This is Sophia," and I am sure that my mouth dropped open with bottom lip hanging in quite unladylike fashion. "This is Sophia." Did he just say that? "This is Sophia." THIS this Sophia?

But this is no girl. Sophia is a woman. And she is stunning. And her breasts aren't saggy--they are annoyingly, perfectly perky. Her hair isn't mousy brown and frizzy--it's silky and smooth and golden and falls over her shoulders in big, full ringlets that probably smell like vanilla or jasmine or whatever that smell is that makes men lean over and kiss women without thinking or asking for permission. Her skin is flawless and glowing--not covered in the dull, acne-scarred pall I had decided on for her. She is not wearing safe brown or slimming black--her dress is red. Well, not red, but the color of perfectly cooked cranberries, and I decide now that cranberry is probably what her hair smells like, too. She is not fat, and in fact, not skinny either--her feminine curves seem sculpted in softness that even I want to touch. And her feet? Not the graceless, clumping sledgehammers I had hoped for. Instead, her feet are almost dainty and have been slid into delicate satin stilettos adorned with just-the-right-size rhinestone hearts.

"It's nice to meet you," she says, and my eyes jump to her perfect lips and perfect teeth--straight and white and smiling with genuine warmth. "I've heard so much about you," she practically sings, without the least bit of pretention, but I had already stopped listening. My eyes had already met his--no, had TRIED to meet his, but his eyes were already (or still?) on her, and I knew in an instant that he was hers and that he would never be mine, and worse, that the only person who had noticed or would ever care was me.