ISSN 1758-6488
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Men in Love Fiction |
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I tuck a five in the string. Strawberry writhes, shivers, rises, sways rump-stuck-out away to “Owner of a Lonely Heart.”
“She could change her name to Raspberry,” I say.
“Hey Honey! He says change your name to, listen.” She buzzes spittily a razzberry.
“I’m quitting the scam,” I blurt out. “I can’t do it, I don’t know why.”
She says something so quiet, I have to make her say it twice to hear.
“You’re doing it wrong for your age.”
I look at her. I’m always amazed when anybody’s right about people. To be right, you have to think about them and forget yourself. Who can do it? No men, at least I never met one. Hardly any women, except beat-up Candys who forgot they were themselves years ago and end up pushing around trashbags in supermarket carts gabbling truths to air. Who listens to truth? I taught a class in Intellectual Heritage of Western Civilization once, that’s the lesson Cassandra learned: Never give yourself to a god, you wind up wise. It’s never smart to be wise.
“Hope you don’t mind me saying, you know more about this than me, I’m wrong, forget me, I’m sorry.”
“You mean I’m too old for the laughing college-boy scam.”
“Not for, to get girls,” she says, shy hand hides her mouth. “Ex high school hero, they all want one. I see when they go by. But he doesn’t want, like, teenagers taking his pens. They don’t buy condos. Telemarketers don’t want their names. Older couples see you’re not a kid. Not old, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Shit. I’m over thirty and finally look over twenty-five to reading-glasses mom and dads. It’s like a death in the family. A profit-making persona is passing out of my life.” She’s apologizing. “Too late,” I say. “Once you’re right you can’t pretend to be polite and stupid.” I kiss her thanks, an odd kiss, you feel how hard teeth are when you hit soft lip dents instead.
“Gotta go,” I say. “Have to think about what this means. I think alone.” Candy, if there’s anything to Candy besides drugs, can wait. Candies always wait.
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