Jose sits across from Mouse at a table by the jukebox. “What I don’t understand, I mean, she likes me, she came onto me. So it’s not that I’m repulsive to her or anything.”
Mouse laughs, and reaches out and touches his cheek.
“Poor boy. Of course she likes you, Jose, you’re beautiful. But you are only an English major. Maybe you will be a teacher, yes? A good life, but Barbie expects more than an ordinary life.”
“That sucks, Mouse.” Jose sips his beer pensively.
“Maybe, but I think that has always been how the world works. Used to be the man would always pick, but now the woman gets to pick too.”
“So who do you pick, Mouse?”
She laughs. “I’m too young, I just want to have fun. Later. Maybe. Perhaps I will be a famous writer like Erica Jong first yes?”
“Maybe I’ll become a famous writer too. Win the Booker Prize, maybe even a Pulitzer.”
“You must be American to get that one.”
“Okay. The Nobel then.”
Mouse laughs “That’s the spirit. Maybe then she will regret. But Barbie wants to go places now. She doesn’t want to wait, has never had to because her beauty opens doors. She wants her power to find a star or a millionaire.”
“That lets me out.” Jose thumps his empty glass down and nibbles on peanuts from the bowl.
“Just relax and try to have some fun, Jose.”
“I guess.” Jose nods at the bar. “Hey, isn’t that Boris?”
Mouse says, “Boris has even worse trouble than you.”
* * *
Boris sits at the bar, staring morosely into his glass of beer. He’s depressed, not just because he’s been rejected by the girl he loves, or even that he’s been so publicly humiliated. What bothers him the most, the thing that has shaken his self image is that until now he hadn’t realized that he was such a loser.
He always thought girls liked him. That at least he was okay, they at least didn’t think he was repulsive. But maybe all these years when girls smiled at him they were really laughing at him. And he was too stupid to realize. Big dumb jock.
A couple of girls at the end of the bar are pointing and whispering. He knows they’re looking at his black eye. Eyes. Leave it to Natasha to give him two. Hadda catch him in the sweet spot at the bridge of his nose. Feeling his jaw clench, Boris tracks the whispering girls in his peripheral vision.
Classic “A” type personality, Natasha. She can’t just tell him to take a hike like any normal girl. No, she’s gotta make a laughing stock of him. Give him a double shiner, decking him in front of the whole world. Which has of course put him smack-dab in the middle of the kind of story that makes the rounds so often that even the people who weren’t there tell it as though they were.
The kind of story that will never die. Ever. They’ll probably be telling it decades from now. But in the here and now his whole university career will be a living hell.
And for what, because he likes her? Because he’s just another poor sap who wants to be more than friends? God. Every other girl in the world bitches about guys not wanting commitment. Not Natasha. She’d as soon knock you down as look at you. They could’ve at least stayed friends if it wasn’t for that stupid spectacle, but now? Just thinking of the flashing light in her eyes just before she knocked him down. Why couldn’t she have given him a chance?
Bitch.
Downing the rest of the beer he catches Billie the bartender’s eye, points at his empty. She nods and pulls him a fresh draught. Watching her set it in front of him with a smile, he realizes morosely Billie probably knows the whole story too. It’s bad enough being humiliated by one woman but two in the same day? Hell, Elsie sleeps with everybody, but nooo, not him. Not Boris the loser. Even Elsie the easy is too good for him.
Bitch.
Drinking more beer he asks himself, not for the first time, how could he live this long and not have known he was a loser? Talk about living in denial.
Maybe denial is a loser survival trait. If you don’t know you’re a loser you don’t jump out a window or slit your wrists. If you don’t think you’re a loser you can get out of bed in the morning and face the day. If you haven’t realized you’re a loser you can get on with your life, take your pictures, soak up some rays, pump a little iron, go out for a drink with your pal.
Except his pal Natasha decked him and in the process told him and everyone else what a loser he is.
What a fool, thinking you could be friends with a girl. Yeah.
The girls are giggling now, and he glowers over at them.
He can feel the giant “L” Natasha left imprinted in the middle of his forehead.
One of the girls looks guiltily away, the other meets his eyes defiantly. She smiles, then suddenly blushes a deep crimson. Hmm, maybe she’s … flirting? She still holds his gaze. Nah. Probably just fucking with his head, a popular pastime. Make this a new civic holiday, call it “Screw With Boris Day.”
He turns his attention to his beer and drinks more, watching bubbles float up without caring what causes them. Women. The cause of all the problems in the world. Maybe there is something in that Garden of Eden stuff Papa was always going on about.
He’d always just chalked it up to the fact that Mama left. Ran off with that Russian artist. Maybe Papa was right.
Boris knows he had been ready to fly in the face of family, not just any family, his family, to defend her. Even knowing they would never accept any girl who wasn’t Croatian.
He would have faced them for her.
And of all the non-Croatian girls in the world to bring home the absolute worst would be a Russian girl. It might even get him disowned. But he’d have done it for Natasha. Stood up for her. Because he loves her, damn it. And what does she do? She hits him. Disrespects him like that. Papa says women are the root of all …
Boris freezes as he feels a gentle touch on his arm. His peripheral vision tells him that there’s only one girl left at the end of the bar.
Great, they aren’t happy with tormenting him from afar. He turns to look at her. She looks nervous. Good. He gives her his best death metal glower.
What can she possibly want from him?
“Hi.” she smiles. “I’m Sarah. Would it be okay if I joined you?” Boris continues glowering but she just smiles again, nervously, and slides onto the stool. “You’re Boris, right?”
Boris just stares at her blackly. She glances away, then beckons the bartender over.
Sipping his beer, Boris waits for the punchline. He can see it now, she’s gonna order a Black Russian.
Because all the ignoramuses here at Christie think it’s a certainty that he’s a Russian because of his name. These university assholes are mostly too stupid to even know there’s a difference.
Billie the bartender comes over, “Help ya?”
The girl nods. “Tequila Sunrise please.”
Billie pours a shot of tequila into a glass, douses it with O.J. and deftly splashes grenadine over the top, then sets it on a cocktail napkin in front of the girl.
“And another for him.” the girl is rooting in her purse for some money, which she passes across the bar as the fresh draught arrives.
Boris watches as the grenadine sinks to the bottom of her glass, glancing from glass to girl. Trying to find the joke, the put down. This is some hot babe, slinky as all get out. She’s a lot softer looking than Natasha, is, that’s for sure. Boris is still wondering what the punch line is.
The bartender slaps the change on the counter before moving off to the other end of the bar, and the girl just leaves the coins lay, sipping at her drink. She sure is pretty. Not a tom-boy like Natasha, this girl is wearing a dress, even. Gold chain around her neck, hanging down and disappearing in her cleavage.
She looks over the rim of the highball glass, smiling mysteriously. She licks her lips and suddenly Boris is having a hard time catching his breath. This is like a classic femme fatale pick up scene straight out of film noir. This can’t possibly be happening. Not to him.
God this is making him horny.
A quick glance down the bar tells him that the friend has gone. Hmmm. Boris feels a light touch along his calf, and he glances down, startled. Sarah’s allowed her ridiculous red shoes –Natasha would never be caught dead in such absurd footwear– to slide off her feet, and the naked toes of one foot are curled around the stool’s lower crossbar, the other languorously rubs the inside of his leg.
Boris smiles, the black Slavic mood abruptly gone. This girl is not only buying him drinks, she is coming on to him. If it’s a joke, he’s willing to take it like a man. He looks over at her face, she’s watching him through veiled lashes, breathing shallowly.
Nervous, but not stopping. Mmmm.
Boris is feeling less like a loser and more like a lion as he slides the empty glass away, and picks up the glass of draught beer she bought him. He leans over to clink glasses with her. Sarah. She smiles, takes a sip, licks her lips. Boris smiles back.
“Maybe we’d be a little more comfortable in a booth? Quieter anyway.” he suggests.
“I think the one at the back is empty.” she replies. Then wiggles her toes. “Maybe you could get my shoes?”
Sliding off the stool, Boris drops into a squat and picks up the first shoe. The sharp edges and pointy bits on these things look painful. She extends her foot, pointing her toe, and he slides the shoe on. His smile widens. This is kinda sexy.
Boris picks up the second shoe and lifts it toward her foot but she snakes it around and down to run those toes across his groin. Oh boy.
Boris grabs the foot and slides the shoe over it, before awkwardly rising to his feet. He looks into the girl’s eyes, and they are smoldering. Oh.
She reaches out and rests her hands on his shoulders then slides off the stool, brushing against him all the way down. Then she turns and starts down to the aisle to the back booth.
Watching her walk Boris understands the point of those damned shoes. Swaying hips. Boris’ breath catches again.
Oh.
My.
Natasha never swayed quite like that. Boris tears his eyes away from the sultry undulation just long enough to grab their glasses off the bar so he can follow her.
Maybe girls do like him.
