The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing - Melissa Bank [55]
Crossing the street, he saw me. He smiled, I thought, sadly. It seemed like he might walk past me on the sidewalk, but he stopped, and said, "Hey kiddo," and kissed my cheek.
"This is my daughter, Elizabeth."
I acted as though I'd known who she was.
"Hi," she said. She seemed even younger than her young self, fidgeting with a white mohair glove.
Archie asked me if I was still temping, and I admitted that I was a semi-perm at an ad agency.
She was looking from Archie to me, maybe wondering who I was—or had been—to her father.
I asked how Mickey was. "Tired," Archie said; he'd just delivered his new book.
"The Mickey I met that time?" Elizabeth asked.
Archie said, "Right," and told his daughter and me that the new book, about a baker-bookie, was called Dough.
It occurred to me that I would have been Elizabeth's stepmother. I wanted to ask her about herself, what she did and where she lived, but I could see that Archie wanted to go. She could, too, and was taking her cues from him.
She must have felt me watching her walk away, though. At the corner, she turned around and flashed me a gloved peace sign.
I peaced her back. Then they were gone.
Y O U
C O U L D B E
A N Y O N E
A Girl Scout is clean in thought, word, and deed.
It's easy to be clean on the outside. All you need is soap and water and a scrubbing brush. It's harder to be clean on the inside.
—From Junior Girl Scout Handbook
He's broad and muscular from lifting weights and running every evening along the Hudson River. Blond and blue-eyed with a strong jaw and skin so pale it looks bleached. He is all handsome and no pretty, the kind that makes you think of the Navy and Florida and girls in tube tops calling him hunky. But he grew up in Manhattan, on Park Avenue: he will rise when you enter the room; he will notice that you're cold and drape his blue blazer around your shoulders; he will hail the taxi and open the door for you to get in.
On your first date, he will pick you up on his motorcycle, and bring a helmet for you. He nods his big helmet head when he's ready for you to get on. He fastens your hands around his waist like a seat belt.
You sense that he's dangerous but don't know why—and wonder if it's because he makes you feel safer than you've ever felt.
At the restaurant, low-lit and charming, he orders bourbon straight up with a beer chaser, and becomes low-lit and charming himself. When your dinner arrives, he takes vitamins out of his shirt pocket, and offers a twin supply for you.
You walk through the Village. It's spring. The air is cool and the sky is clear.
Back at your apartment, you pour him a glass of wine. On your sofa, he holds your hand in both of his, tickling and touching it, lingering at the crotches between your fingers.
You can feel that he wants to own you—not like an object but like a good dream he wants to keep having. He lets you know that you already own him.
—•—
He cannot see you often enough. He calls you every day at work, calls you every night at home. He says, "This is your boyfriend speaking."
He invites you to hear his moribund rock band, Pleather, at The Bitter End. The songs are harsh and vulgar, except "Will You Love Me Tomorrow."
He pushes his clothes aside to make space for yours in his closet.
He worries about your riding your bicycle in Manhattan. He buys you a flashing red light to put on your helmet, and when you ride away, he sings, "Staying alive, staying alive."
You love Airedales, and he writes away to make you a member of the Airedale Terrier Society of America. You get a membership card and their monthly newsletter, "The Black and Tan."
He remembers the names of everyone you mention—the people you work with, your friends, acquaintances, your entire extended family—and nicknames them: your complaining cousin Marjorie is "Martyrie"; your boss, Rachel, who has a thing for black