ISSN 1758-6488
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Men in Love Fiction |
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HORSESHOES.
“She says he says love is what you are? You said? Something, I hope?”
“I said, if love is what you are, I am in love with you.”
Horseshoes, 3 a.m. Candy nods. “Pretty good. You’re a human being when a woman’s falling apart. Guys need to be congratulated for that kind of wonderful minimum behavior. So you go to bed. Great sex. You promised to love her forever, and take her with you to whoever-heard-of-it community college. You’re like a kid again you’re so happy. Or would be, except it’s a lie, you loving her.”
“No. I love her.”
“You’re telling me everything’s fine? Then why are you telling me?”
I watch Strawberry. “Did she dye it purpler?” I say.
“She changed her name to Razzberry. She gets up on the bar, everybody goes,” Candy blows a razzberry. “The owner loves it. She wants to thank you – personally. You didn’t answer. You love her? Then why are we drinking?”
“I love her. But like everybody else I don’t say I’m in love and mean it and not worry after. I sound like a shit, I know. But it’s not only she can’t speak English, she doesn’t want to. She needs being a foreigner. She can only live here as long as she hates America. Hating only works with her husband – in the halfdozen crazy languages they speak.”
“You’re worried about her happiness.” She pats my back. “Because she’s too much in love to worry. You’re not worried about yourself at all. You’re a hell of a guy.”
“Try and imagine. She moves in my one-bedroom apartment in a bare brick building surrounded by strip malls full of Payless Shoe Stores. It’s called Towne, towne with an e, Luxury Living Complex. The basement is a fifteen foot indoor swimming pool that smells like bleach, a health club that smells like moldy plastic rug and a laundry room that smells like baby pee and dryer lint.”
27
