We Talk of Women on a Train Car at Night: Writing Exercise #19

Day 38

“Here’s the thing,” he says, pausing to moisten his throat for lengthy verbal combat. I focus on a bead of condensation on the side of my collins glass, noticing with rising anxiety the lonely, melting ice cubes within, the ribs of the squashed wedge of lime, the flecks of citrus pulp.

He sets his highball back on the tablecloth, ice clinking gently, and continues, “Girls don’t like it when you call ’em too often, especially early on.”

“She’s not a girl, she’s twenty five.”

“Chico, she’s a girl at twenty five and I wish to hell I could make you understand that.”

His voice is soft, without condescension. I want him to condescend to me, but he doesn’t. He says hell with such honest pity that I can’t pounce; it would be mean-spirited.

“Women don’t care if you call ‘em too often. ‘Too often’ ain’t a thing to a woman. Women don’t play cat’s cradle with your heartstrings; they’ve played those games for years, had their fun, or found out it didn’t work out so good. Now they want an honest man, or an honest roll in the hay. Games… they get in a woman’s way.”

My annoyance at him calling Seralynn a girl is checked by this new take on game playing. Could it be true? I feel outmatched and grope for a smart rejoinder.

I don’t expect succor from our waiter, whose neglect of my drink is instantly forgiven. He scribbles my order on his pad and shuffles away. I open my mouth to say… anything. He beats me to it.

“I know what you’re thinking: games are the death and taxes of the dating world.” He smirks and shakes his head. “Nah. Not so. Take heart.”

He slowly swirls his highball on the linen, causing the amber liquid inside to move like waves against the glass. I suddenly think of pirates caught in a stormy brown sea, a sea of dark rum, cold in an endless field of ice cube bergs. That would be one happy bunch of pirates.

“But — ” I blurt, for no other reason than to avoid being caught daydreaming in the midst of a serious conversation I very much want to have. I hardly know what I say before it’s out of my mouth.

“But — surely some women play games? It sounds… it sounds too good to be true.” I redden, hoping he doesn’t notice in the dim light.

His eyes soften into a smile. “Alright kid, you got me there.”

Relief.

“As in most things in life, there are exceptions. Sure, do some women play games? Yeah. Do some girls shoot straight? I bet so, but you sure ain’t found any, and you’re playing losing odds there.”

The gambling metaphor works for me. I understand gambling, poker, odds. Those are games I can play.

“So… so you’re saying I should…” I fumble a bit, but he waits, a mildly encouraging glint in his eyes. I think of poker.

“It’s like this,” I begin, comprehension and confidence building. “If I keep getting beat at a game, I can change the game… or, like in poker, maybe not change the game, but just… move tables.”

He taps the highball on the table with a glassy clunk.

“Yes. Yes. Precisely.”

Emboldened, I continue.

“It’s like poker. I’ve played many games where I just keep getting beat, no matter what. I can’t get good cards to fib with, or I get bad beats. Usually, the other guys don’t know how to play, or — worse — they think they know how to play, and they end up calling all kinds of crap they — well, the point is, I can either keep getting beat, or I can move to another table with different players.”

He nods, a broad smile almost showing his teeth.

“So… I can play with the women.”

“You can play with the women.”

“But…”

The question seems suddenly absurd. I swallow, wondering how long it takes a waiter to mix cola and vodka.

As if on cue, the waiter reappears, my drink dark and cool and giving me courage. He waits as I take a sip.

“When exactly does a girl become a woman?”

He actually laughs. My stomach clenches. I feel the heat rise to my face, but it isn’t a derisive laugh.

“My boy, the magical question! I am sorry to disappoint you and give you the answer despised by all who crave a world of neat boxes, devoid of gray.”

He takes another healthy sip, his eyes dancing.

“It depends.”

Originally published at www.zerofoxgiven.net on April 22, 2017