By Matthew Poirier
I played hockey with Judd back in high school, but it was as his mother’s guest that I was attending his marriage. When she and I bumped into each other in Nordstrom’s a few years ago, we really hit it off, and have been keeping lunch dates every week or so since. She was sitting at a table talking to some of the other relatives as I entered the reception.
“Where have you been? You missed the ceremony.”
“What are you talking about? I told you I wouldn’t be able to attend the wedding proper. I had another engagement.”
“Wedding proper? Listen to you talk. See girls, didn’t I tell you he was adorable?”
“Oh, and he’s so well dressed.”
“He’s always like that. Always the best clothes.”
She was fondling my coat.
“Actually, Eileen, I had this suit tailored specifically for your son’s wedding while I was in London last weekend.”
“I’m sure you did. Now listen, I sat you over there, next to Stacy.”
“Who’s Stacy?”
“Oh, you’ll love her. She’s a corporate lawyer in Boston. Right around your age. She’s looking for a nice man she can settle down with, you know. Her clock’s ticking.”
“Eileen, you’re sapping my strength.”
“Sapping whose strength? You’re 38 years old. You’re a nice looking boy with a lot of money. You need to stop hanging around with that Norwegian buddy of yours and find yourself a woman.”
“You mean Mads, my Norwegian companion; and that’s beside the point. I do all right in the woman department, you’re the one who seems to be worried about it. And anyway, if Stacy’s a Jew, wouldn’t that be bad for her to marry a Gentile?”
“No, the religion’s carried down through the mother. No one gives a shit what you are as long as the kids are Jewish.”
On that note we parted and I found my seat. I wasn’t that hungry, so I just poured a glass of water and introduced myself. Stacy looked like a very attractive woman in her mid-thirties. She was wearing a short blue dress, with her hair down, and a decent amount of make-up. I could tell from how uncomfortable her shoes seemed to make her, the way her dress didn’t fall quite right on her body, and the application of her cosmetics, that she wasn’t at home in a setting like this. Give her a business suit with pants, of course and let her discuss the details of a merger at lunch with some of her colleagues, and she’d be much better off than at this table with me and two young couples, trying to make small talk.
My first instinct was to leave Stacy at sea in her social miasma and try to pry Julie, this cute twenty-five-year-old sitting across the table making eyes at me, from Ned, her husband of two years. I couldn’t figure out to whom that would be meaner: Ned or Stacy; but I knew it would be mean, so I decided against it and asked Stacy if she wanted anything from the buffet.
“Yes, that sounds good. Do you want to go up together?”
“I do. It definitely looks like a two-man task.”
As she stood, she stumbled slightly.
“Easy now, I’ve got you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sure you can tell I’m not used to walking in these.”
“I’m sure I can.”
“Thanks, you’re really nice.”
“I’m nicer than you think. I could be back at the table hitting on Julie in front of Ned.”
She grabbed my arm and whispered something about them being right there. She was laughing.
In line at the buffet, she told me about her life as a lawyer, and I almost fell asleep where I stood. I had to catch her two more times on the way back to the table, before she gave up and took off her shoes. I offered to carry them for her, being the gentleman that I am, but she would have none of it, being the empowered female that she was. As we sat down, I smiled at Julie. It’s always good to have a couple irons in the fire.
“So what do you do for work?”
“I’m retired.”
“What? At your age? Must be nice. What did you do, win the lottery.”
“You could say that.”
I took a bite of her cheesecake.
“It’s good, isn’t it? Have some more, I can’t eat all of it.”
“No no, I’m trying to watch my girlish figure.”
“Whatever… I like you, you’re funny.”
“I hear that all the time.”
“I bet you do. Now quit stalling and tell me how you got to be so rich. What did you mean by ‘you could say that’?
I was dreading this part. I wanted to kill Eileen for putting me in this position. The story of my wealth was a very ridiculous one, and something I was rather embarrassed to discuss.
“I won the lottery back in ‘95. $15 million. I’ve made some smart investments since then, so I’m worth a little more than that.”
It was a lie, but I couldn’t foresee it becoming an issue: Stacy and I weren’t going to go anywhere, and I knew I wouldn’t see her again. Eileen was a horrible Emma. Good thing I had another iron in the fire.
Somehow the conversation moved to the Patriots Super Bowl loss, and I didn’t have the wherewithal to hold up my end while Stacy described how upset she was. I was too busy looking at Julie’s chest. Cleavage is one of those things that frustratingly draws the line between the sexes, in that it’s something guys have to be cognizant of trying not to be obnoxious and stare at it too long that women don’t have to worry about. Now, I’m sure having boobs must be a pain in the ass, don’t get me wrong, but a woman can stare at another woman’s tits or a guys’ pecs all day and not be considered a degenerate; while here I was trying to feign agony about a game I actually made twenty grand on by betting against the Pats, and not have Stacy or Julie pick up on how much I was admiring Julie’s rack.
“I want you to know that your money doesn’t impress me.”
“Okay…?”
“I mean it’s great that you have money, because I’d like a guy that can provide his equal share in the relationship, but I make plenty of money too. I’m not looking for a guy to take care of me.”
Julie and her friend went to the bathroom.
“I think you’re right. I was going to offer to get you another drink while I’m up, but in lieu of our mutual decision to not be bound by conventionality in our gender roles, I’m gonna hit the can instead. If you want to grab me a TNT from the bar while I’m gone, by all means. I’d greatly appreciate it.”
I never knew if Stacy got me that drink. Julie and I found a nice little men’s room stall to hook up in, and one of Ned’s friends found us in there. I was spared the humiliation of a security escort through Eileen’s intervention.
“What am I going to do with you?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Are we still on for lunch at the Blue Ginger next week?”
“Have you ever worn women’s jeans?”
“Like a woman’s I was dating, or in a drag show, or what? What are you talking about?”
“I saw a dude on the T rocking a woman’s size 8. I just wondered if you would ever consider that.”
“I mean, I guess when it comes to clothes, nothing can ever be completely ruled out, but I think for the most part I’ll stick to shopping in the men’s department.”
Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were relaxing in my apartment. He was catching up on episodes of Reba he’d TiVoed, and I was doing the crossword puzzle in the Globe, when he asked me his question on women’s clothing. I’d met Mads about 9 years ago, while we were both out celebrating our 29th birthdays. We were surprised to find out we were born not only on the same day, but in the same year. It was one of many things we had in common, and we became fast friends. One area we differed in was how we obtained our affluence: while I was Nouveau Riche, Mads was born into the family of Norwegian aristocracy. Many things came easy to him (which could possibly be said of me as well, I guess), and after he obtained his PhD in ornithology from Harvard, it didn’t take him long to win the Nobel Prize in that same field of study. As a Nobel Laureate, he was always offered positions at various institutions of higher learning, the most recent being Oklahoma University. He never told me if he was still employed there, but he had been staying at my apartment for the last six months, so I guessed not.
A few minutes later the doorman rang, asking if we’d ordered Chinese, and we told him to let the guy upstairs. I picked at my food while Mads ripped through his.
“You gonna finish your General Tso’s?”
“I’ll probably save it for later. I’m not hungry right now.”
He moved closer to me.
“Is everything all right? You seem like you have something on your mind.”
I jumped back and put some distance between us.
“I’ve been thinking about that Stacy chick.”
It was the first time I’d said it out loud since the wedding.
“Is that the one you hooked up with in the bathroom?”
“No, it’s the corporate lawyer.”
“What? The one that couldn’t dress herself or wear high heels? Why would you give a shit about her?”
“I don’t know… she had something.”
“Dude, you said she looked like a raccoon the way she put on her make-up.”
“I know, it was kind of a turn on. The whole thing was a turn on… OOMMM… she just has something, you know?”
“I don’t know. You tried having sex with the hot married twenty-five-year-old at the party. That makes sense. Any sane 38-year-old would do that. But getting hung up over a single almost-Cougar because she’s ‘got something’ sounds asinine to me.”
“You just wouldn’t understand.”
“I wouldn’t? All right, if you think this chick’s so worth it, answer this one question.”
“Shoot.”
“What happened to the suit you wore to the wedding?”
“What are you talking about, I told you I gave it to Goodwill the next day. Why would I wear it twice?… Oh, I see what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”
“Why waste your time with someone who’s that uncouth? You deserve so much better.”
Our conversation was cut short by another call from the doorman. It was Pageant Girl, a former Miss Oklahoma Mads had met during his time out there, and who he was now keeping in a suite at the Ritz. For some reason he was totally fascinated by the concept of the American beauty pageant. This novelty was probably what kept him from getting too bored with her too quickly.
Her new thing today was a desire to audition for American Idol down in New York. She thought she had what it took to be a star, and wanted to know if Mads and I did too. She sang Kelly Clarkson’s “A Moment Like This”, and it was so bad we each made faces like two two-year olds given a lemon wedge and unknowingly eating it. I spoke first.
“Um... I think... I don’t know if that song was right for you.”
“Woman, you sucked. Don’t quit your day job, whatever that is.”
“Oh, you’re such a kidder, Mads. How was it really?”
“I’m Norwegian, we don’t kid. Homegirl, you couldn’t sing if your life depended on it... which should be all right, because I can’t imagine a scenario where it would.”
She was on the verge of tears, so I jumped in.
“I don’t necessarily think it’s your ability to sing. That song just wasn’t made for your voice. I’d try another.”
“Yeah, like that Ashley Simpson song, ‘Pieces of Me’?”
I looked at him, he looked at me, and then together:
On a Monday, I was waiting… and on Tuesday I was waiting… and Thursday I can’t sleep. Then the phone rings… I hear you… the darkness… a clear view… you’ve come to rescue me…
Pageant girl was none too impressed.
“Are you guys gonna listen to me sing or what?”
“Sing the chorus with us, Pageant Girl.”
Ohhhhhhh, it seems like I can finally rest my head on something real… I like the way that feels. Ohhhhhh, it’s as if you know me better than I ever knew myself… I love how you can tell… all the piece-ass, piece-ass, piece-ass of me.
She stormed out of the room and slammed the door while Mads and I were giggling.
“Shouldn’t you go talk to her?”
“Probably, but Days is on in a few minutes, and I don’t want to get into some big thing that may run into it.”
“Oh.”
We both kind of just stared at the floor for a second. Mads lifted his head first.
“For what it's worth, I thought your idea about doing a new song was a good one.”
“Thank you, Mads.”
“You're welcome.”
I couldn’t gain a solid grasp on it. I could have any number of women, many of them much more physically attractive by any objective standard than Stacy, but she was all I could think about. Something told me that after over twenty-five years of searching, I’d found what I was looking for, and stupidly threw it away hooking up with a married chick in a bathroom stall. Is it bad to continue the metaphor further and say I was outside in the dumpster searching for it, hoping the trash man hadn’t taken it away yet?
“Why should I give you Stacy’s number?”
“Eileen, it was your idea that we’d be good together in the first place. I was wrong to resist the Emma in you.”
“You made me look like a moron at my own son’s wedding.”
“I think you’re being a little overly dramatic here.”
She shook her head. We had kept our lunch date and were dining at Ming Tsai’s Blue Ginger. I was surprised at the amount of resistance I was encountering in procuring Stacy’s number.
“Okay, what’s going to happen if I do this and you two go out? What happened with that last girl you were seeing?”
“Who?”
“That Gwen girl.”
“Oh, her… things just kind of fizzled.”
“No they didn’t, you cheated on her.”
“What are you talking about? I totally didn’t cheat.”
“You slept with another girl.”
“I did? You must be thinking of someone else.”
“No, it was Gwen. You slept with that girl that spoke that language.”
“Oh my God! You’re right. But that didn’t count.”
“More wine, sir?”
“Sure, what else am I going to do today? Pour one for her, too. If she doesn’t want it, I’ll take it.”
“It’s not like I have much to do today either. And why doesn’t it count?”
“Then it’s settled. Thank you. To us.” I took a sip of the wine. “It doesn’t count because the woman I slept with was the last native speaker of an almost extinct Dalmatian language. The chances of meeting anyone who speaks that again were nill. I had to take that opportunity. I’d be kicking myself right now if I didn’t.”
“And you don’t consider that cheating?”
“Oh, God no… listen, Eileen, I know Stacy and I got off on the wrong foot.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Whatever. Julie meant nothing to me. Well, okay, she meant something… but Stacy’s all I’ve been thinking about. I need to see her again. You need to help me.”
She picked at her sake-miso marinated Alaskan butterfish.
“I know I’m going to regret this.”
Once I convinced Stacy that I was more the man that she found funny and intriguing and less the man she saw leaving disgracefully after hooking up with another dude’s wife in a bathroom stall, we managed to plan a date walking around in the North End and getting coffee. It went so well, we saw each other after she got out of work every day that week. I took her to Neiman Marcus and helped her pick out a dress for her upcoming birthday party (she was going to be 40, to my surprise). She was very hesitant at first, thinking she wasn’t the kind of girl who shops at Neiman Marcus— whatever that means— but I insisted we stick it out, finding this navy jersey number that looked much better than the thing she was wearing at the wedding.
When she got out of the fitting room, part of me wanted to pantomime polishing my brass buttons with my fist I was so proud of myself, but the part of me that was turned on by how hot she looked won out. The dress perfectly hugged every curve, and watching her look in the mirror, examining herself and running her hands over those curves, made me want her right then in the middle of the store.
“What do you think? I guess you were right, I am a Neiman Marcus kind of girl.”
I came up behind her, put my arms around her hips, and kissed her on the neck. She turned around and pushed me off.
“Cut it out, there’s people around.”
“You wanna go in the dressing room instead?”
She smiled. We didn’t make it to the dressing room. I helped her pick out shoes, brought her to the cosmetics counter where one of the girls gave her a quick tutorial on applying her make-up, and then we caught a cab back to her place. Actually, I think she had planned on us splitting a cab back to our respective houses, and she was surprised when I got out with her. We chatted for a few seconds, I let her know I would be away for the weekend, she wished me a good weekend, and we hugged. I didn’t let her hands go, though, and I stared into her eyes.
“I really like you, Stacy.”
“I know… we shouldn’t force things though…”
Shouldn’t force things? What was she talking about? I leaned in anyway and kissed her, and she reciprocated. Only a little kiss, though, fairly innocent. I imagine any married couple wouldn’t have considered what we did cheating if one or the other had done the same to another member of the opposite sex— yet I had a sense that that little peck was something Stacy didn’t give out every day. As I walked towards the nearest T stop, after she had gone into her building, she texted me a smiley face.
That weekend Mads and I attended the premier of the latest Kate Hudson/Matthew McConaughey romantic comedy in LA. It was an amazing experience. Instead of hooking up with all the women we met, all I could think about was Stacy. I tried my best not to text her too much, but I found myself losing my mind with anticipation every time my phone vibrated. I didn’t like this at all.
“I’ve never seen you like this.”
“I’ve never met anyone like this. I’m not saying I want to marry her or anything, but… you know…”
“You’re talking in ellipsis a lot lately too.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t complete a thought to save your life. Everything trails off somehow. ‘It’s like… I don’t know… but…’. I mean, really dude?”
We were eating at a truck stop somewhere off of I-15 at 3:45 in the morning. Mads had one of his illegitimate children with us, apparently conceived while on spring break 18 years ago. He’d met the boy for the first time only a few months before on Dr. Phil, and I was happy to see him take a positive role in the child’s life. The boy’s mother named him Tristan, but Mads called him D’Brickishaw because he thought Tristan sounded too wussy.
“So, D’Brick, where’re we droppin’ you after this?”
“I thought I was staying with you, Dad.”
“Really? I thought you’d just go home.”
“Home’s in Tampa. I was only in LA that one time to go on Dr. Phil.”
“Then why’re you out here?”
“You told me to come. I used some of that thousand dollars you gave me for my birthday to get a plane ticket. I was hoping you’d reimburse me too, actually.”
“Hmm… this is a tad disconcerting, I must say. Are you sure you’re not from LA?”
Our food arrived. I wasn’t satisfied, and Mads noticed.
“What is it?”
“The green bean’s rather aggressive.”
We called our waitress, and then the chef came out. He seemed rather angry.
“This is a truck stop, what do you expect?”
Mads thought the chef was threatening us, so he sprayed him in the eyes with Mace. Then the waitress jumped on his back, and he fell forward, knocking her face on the table. A trucker ran at us, so I kicked a vacant chair next to us into his path, which he tripped over, and landed hard on the floor.
I stood and spun around to see who was next, and noticed Mads running out with his son in tow. I knew I needed to hit it too, if I wanted to escape this. He almost hit me with the car as he wheeled it in reverse, and I jumped in the back before he sped off.
“Why aren’t we in the vehicle you rented?”
“I liked the convertible. And I felt it was my job as a father to show D’Brickishaw how to hotwire a car.”
I was telling this story to the person sitting next to me at Stacy’s fortieth birthday party early that next week. Stacy didn’t feel comfortable introducing me as anyone other than her friend since we hadn’t been seeing each other that long, which I understood, but also meant I was relegated to the far end of the table talking to someone who was cool, but not that cool.
“So what happened after you drove away?”
Stacy and her friends were laughing at a joke. She snorted. It was so endearing I almost wanted to run across the street to see if the jewelry store was open and buy her an engagement ring right then. She looked so adorable in the outfit I picked out for her too.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“What happened after you guys drove away from the truck stop. Did anyone find you? What about the stolen car?”
“Oh, we ditched it in West Hollywood or something. Mads went on a solo mish the next morning to get the rental back.”
Her friend was extremely attractive. She had these amazing brown eyes that stared right through me. She also had a boyfriend, and she gave some convoluted explanation for his absence. That didn’t stop her from talking about him though. He went to Tufts for med school, and he was the best this or that at this or that that “they” had ever seen. Even in Boston, a city filled with med students, everyone still talks about their med student as if no one’s ever met anyone else in med school before, the same way they would in a small town in Maine or something. In most cases, a chick hung up on another dude would be the last person I’d want to talk to, but I was flanked on my other side by Stacy’s father.
As a child, all I wanted was to be a grownup. For the most part, I was right in wishing for that, because grownups have many advantages: I can eat Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for supper, don’t have to sneak porn and alcohol, and can stay up as late as I want. But there are some major drawbacks, one of which is accountability. When I was ten, if someone farted next to me, I had a free pass to laugh hysterically with no consequences. At 38, I’m afforded no such luxury, and I could taste the blood in my mouth as I bit my lip after Stacy’s dad let this enormous one go. Total machine gunner. And it smelled pretty harsh. Like a newly opened cheap can of chicken noodle soup. I was hoping Stacy’s friend heard, because if she smelled it and didn’t know where it came from, I was the natural culprit.
“Would you like another Appletini?”
“Yeah, and could you make the next one stronger?”
Satisfied she wouldn’t be smelling anything, I turned back to Stacy, just in time to see her flirting with our gay waiter after he took the Appletini order. Ugh! I just wanted to be next to her, and she was practically ignoring me. I couldn’t imagine why any of this was happening. I should’ve read my horoscope. It probably would’ve told me to stay in and catch up on my Dickens.
After dinner anyone not a member of AARP went for drinks. I ended up with the honors of finding a place to do that. I knew I was with the wrong crowd when I suggested we start by hitting the T. Only Stacy thought that was a good idea, but she was also hammered, hanging onto my arm so strongly I thought it would come off, and again in her bare feet because her heels weren’t working for her. Reluctantly, the party followed me onto the subway, and I took us to Gypsy Bar.
This time the crew mutinied because all the other patrons there were much younger than us, and because there was a line to get in. I explained that I could get us past that line, but they insisted on going somewhere else, and I relented, allowing someone to pick some lame brewery pub a couple streets over. Stacy ditched me for her friends again, leaving me to talk with some big girl from her law firm. I was frustrated with myself more than anything. I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t leaving this lame situation. I should’ve been having a better time at Gypsy Bar hooking up with hot twenty-somethings.
Mads and I were rocking out to a little Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” and reading the paper, when Matty, my friend from Maine, stopped in. He was in town to catch a Sox game, and caught an earlier train so he could visit with us. How nice of him.
“This song’s been stuck in my head for days.”
“I know. It’s hot.”
Mads turned the page. He was sitting with his legs crossed, like Jean-Luc Picard on the bridge of the Enterprise. He barely acknowledged Matty’s presence. Undaunted, Matty spoke to me anyway.
“So last weekend, I was at this bachelor party. Well, it wasn’t so much a bachelor party as much as a bunch of guys going out and getting wasted and hitting a strip club before some dude I barely knew was getting married.”
“So a Poor Man’s bachelor party.”
“Exactly.”
“And you barely knew the groom to be?”
“Friend of a friend. So anyway, we hit the strip club, and me and a couple buddies weren’t really in the mood, you know?”
“Not in the mood? To see vaginas?”
“Well, it’s Maine, so you don’t see vaginas anyway. And it wasn’t that I wasn’t in the mood to see them, just not to pay for them.”
“I got you.”
“So my buddies and I are off to the side, watching the action, and one of them comes and sits on my lap.”
“A stripper? Just sits right down?”
“Sits right down. And my buddies and I are kinda put off. I mean, she was obviously just trying to get us to buy some private dances.”
“Of course.”
“And we weren’t having it.”
“No, you didn’t want to spend any money.”
“Right.”
Mads adjusted his legs and scratched his crotch, then turned another page.
“So things are getting kind of uncomfortable, because she realizes this ain’t goin’ nowhere, and she’s still on my lap.”
“Was she hot?”
“Not so much.”
“Okay, go on.”
“So then she says, get this: ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I must be crushing your lap’, and she gets up. Then I say, and here’s the crazy thing: ‘Oh, you weren’t crushing my lap’, like I’m trying to say ‘No, you’re not fat.’”
“Well, was she fat?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well I don’t know.”
“I just thought it was crazy how all I wanted to do was get this stripper off me, but then I had to be polite because I was afraid she thought I thought she was fat.”
“That’s just how it is. Whenever weight’s brought into the conversation, the first reaction of the guy is to say: ‘you’re not fat’.”
“He’s right," Mads said from behind his paper. “And it’s not like strippers don’t have feelings to consider too. They’re only human.”
“Born to make mistakes.”
“Okay, what if the woman in question’s a 300 pound behemoth? What do I say then when weight’s brought into the conversation? Saying she’s not fat would be disingenuous.”
“Then you tell her she has a really pretty face.”
Mads put down his paper and uncrossed his legs.
“Strippers really don’t show vagina in Maine?”
Matty and I left Mads at the apartment to take a walk and grab a cup of coffee. I was checking my phone constantly to see if Stacy had texted me. He noticed this.
“Is there somewhere you’d rather be?”
“Sorry, just seeing if I have any messages.”
“What’s so important?”
“Man… I don’t know… I’ve been seeing that chick Stacy… the one I met at Eileen’s son’s wedding.”
“You like her?”
“Yes, of course I like her. She might be The One.”
“And you’ve been dating how long…?”
“Like two weeks.”
“Two weeks? And you’ve had sex how many times?”
“We kinda haven’t gotten there yet.”
“What?”
“Dude, you’re like ten years younger than me, you don’t get how this stuff works.”
“I’m almost thirty, and most of my friends are already married too. I know as well as you do how this stuff works. You wanna know my theory on love and relationships?”
“Sure, indulge me.”
“It’ll be my pleasure. See, it’s simple: everyone’s looking for their square peg.”
“Their what?”
“Their square peg. I look at people and relationships like two-year-olds and those toy work benches. You know the ones, with the different shaped holes and the corresponding pegs that fit in them?”
“Okay…”
“We’re all looking for that square peg. That’s The One. We find the square peg and put it in the square hole, and we’re happy. But along the way we find a bunch of triangles and circles and stars.”
“Stars?”
“Stars are those people we look at as unattainable. They’re just too amazing for us.”
“And the triangles and circles?”
“Circles are the discard, people we want nothing to do with. Triangles are potential mates, but people we don’t take too seriously as maybe being The One.”
“So Stacy’s my square peg?”
“Oh, God no. She’s ten kinds of wrong for you, but you’re the only one that can’t see it. She’s went from a triangle to a star, and you’ve confused a star with a square.”
“I’m just confused period. How is Stacy a star?”
“She wouldn’t be for me, but you… you date all kinds of models and actresses and other sorts of hotties. In your world, they’re the norm. For the rest of us, our world is filled with Stacys, and we consider one of the girls you probably cast aside as our star.”
“You’re saying I’m turned on by Stacy because she’s uncouth?”
“You said it, I didn’t. Maybe you have like a My Fair Lady complex.”
“Is that a clinical term Mr. Social Scientist?”
“It should be.”
“So if Stacy is, as you say, ten kinds of wrong for me, isn’t she right as far as fitting into my star hole… that sounds bad… you know what I mean.”
“No, you don’t get it, it’s the square we want. What you’re doing is taking a star peg, and cramming it into a square hole, only as a two-year-old, you can’t figure out why it won’t fit. That’s the whole thing, you’re trying to rationalize this as an adult, but when we’re in love, we’re like two-year-olds, trying to make sense of this strange new world we’re in.”
“I think you’re full of shit.”
My phone was blowing up. I thought it was Stacy, but no such luck, it was Eileen instead. Normally I would’ve let a call like that go to voicemail and return it later, but I felt Matty’s eyes judging me, saying “I bet if that were Stacy, you’d take it”, so not wanting to give him that satisfaction, I answered it.
“Hi, it’s me Eileen… why didn’t you tell Stacy where you got all your money from?”
Part I of Square Peg appeared in our Inaugural Issue last year and is being reproduced in the main website with Part II to follow next week.
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