Heteroflexibility (9 page)

“Should I make something for dinner?” I’d asked. I always made dinner.

“Eat some cereal.”

I’d sat alone in the kitchen, unable to make the corn flakes go down, finally dumping them in the sink. Mom headed back to the bathroom again.

The second time I didn’t let her evade my questions. “I’m calling Dad.”

“He’s off shore.”

“You can get him for emergencies.”

“This isn’t an emergency.”

“Then what is it?”

She headed toward her bedroom. I followed her, flipping on the light as she curled up. “Cervical cancer,” she finally said. “This is just the treatments. I’ll be fine.”

The words slammed into me like a concrete wall, but I hid it. “You don’t look fine.”

“Yeah, well, I never was a looker.”

“I’m calling Dad.”

“Don’t call your dad. He’ll be home in three days. We’ll tell him then.” She head out her hand, as if I should take it, a gesture of solidarity I had no idea how to handle.

But I took it. Her skin felt thin and papery, like she was a hundred years old. And cold. “I won’t call him.”

She let go and closed her eyes. “That’s my good girl.”

The first and last time she called me good.

The doctor slid the speculum out, and I relaxed. He tugged off his rubber gloves and extended a hand to help me sit up. The pain was definitely worse this time, darting up and radiating out, lasting several seconds instead of an instant.

I had nothing funny to say, no ribald comment. He jotted a few things down in my chart. Probably how long I had to live.

“Zest, we can wait for the results, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got Chlamydia.”

“What?”

“One of the milder STDs. A little antibiotic will take care of it. You’re in no danger.”

“How did I get that?”

“It spreads by sexual contact.”

“Oh my God.” That son of a bitch.

“It’s very common. And seventy percent don’t have any symptoms. It could have been around a while.”

“The antibiotic will cure it?”

“Absolutely. But you might want to alert any sexual partners that they should be treated. Has there been any change at home?”

“Cade is divorcing me.”

“I see. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. He’s obviously been busy.”

Dr. White patted my ankle sympathetically. “I took an extra swab to test for everything else, but I think you’re okay. We’ll write you up a prescription. If the test comes back different, we’ll call you.”

I nodded at him, not sure whether to cry or bomb Cade’s house.

After dressing and instructing the desk to bill the copay to my home address—take that Cade!—I pointed my Volvo to the nearest Walgreens to fill the prescription, still burning from the notion that Cade’s woman had given both of us a disease.

Chapter 13: Dating at the Speed of Flight

I looked forward to a nap and a pity party when I got home, but Fern had other ideas. The minute the door opened, she grabbed my arm and dragged me toward her bathroom. “I called one of my people,” she said. “I set us up for speed dating tonight.”

I halted. “Oh, no.”

“She’s very exclusive. No losers in the group. I promise.”

“Fern, I’m not even divorced. It’s only been, what, five days?” Not to mention I was, well,
communicable
.

“Come on,” Fern said, tugging at my hand. “You need to get yourself out there. Meet some men. Have some fun! I can’t handle such a morose best friend.”

“So it’s all about you.”

“Isn’t everything?”

I plunked down on her bed. “I won’t go.”

She shrugged. “I have connections. I’ll bring them to you.”

“Fern.”

“Zest!”

I flung myself backward. “What?”

“Come on. Let’s get dolled up.”

I buried my face in the crook of my arm. “I don’t do doll.”

She hauled me up by the elbow. “Tonight you do. I’ll straighten your hair and find you some clothes.”

***

The sidewalks of the Warehouse District were deserted. Seven o’clock on a Wednesday wasn’t exactly prime time. Fern and I passed the dark doorways of bars, only half of them even open yet. My head still ached from all the tugging Fern had subjected me to in the name of smooth hair.

I didn’t really want to face any men, although I should have known whatever I ended up doing with Fern would involve a bevy. “So how does this work?”

“We’ll get to meet six guys, ten minutes each. Everyone will check either yes or no by each other’s names. If you both choose each other, Lila will hook you up with double-blind email addresses.”

I totally planned to check all no’s.

“Why didn’t you wear the tights?” Fern admonished as we walked along the sidewalk, passing the open doors of bars, their bouncers sitting idly on stools, waiting for the late crowds. “You’re too pale-legged for that look.”

I glanced down at my white knobby knees. “I don’t care.”

“You should. You’re on the market now. The style is boots, textured tights, short skirt. You can’t leave a bit out.”

“But it’s warm out.” I gestured to girls walking toward us. “They all have naked knees.”

“They’re twenty and tan.”

Fern slowed down, and we paused under the bright light of an entrance. “This is it.” She tucked some hair behind my ear, then brought it back out. “You should do your hair like this all the time.”

“It took an hour!”

“Beauty knows no timeline. You ready?”

“Like a lamb going to slaughter.”

The bouncer shifted on his tall stool. “IDs, ladies?”

We passed our licenses over. He stamped our hands and we entered, the cool air shifting to warmth, beer smells, and the roar of conversation.

Fern tilted her head toward me. She had dressed fairly normally for this occasion, a simple black skirt and striped sweater. No vamp, no cutie-pie, no bizarre theme. “Generally the guys will just check off everyone,” she said. “So don’t worry about that. You just decide if you like them.”

A woman in an unfortunate gold lamé pantsuit held a small sign that said simply, “Meet Here.”

“That’s Lila,” Fern said.

“You should give her fashion advice.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried.”

We headed over to her section of the bar where six tall tables were set with two opposing stools.

“Hello, Fern, darling,” Lila said, air kissing her. “Is this your little friend?”

 “This is Zest,” Fern said. “It’s her first time.”

“Charmed,” Lila said, holding out her hand in a position that made it seem as though I should kiss it.

I grasped it awkwardly in a limp shake. “Thanks for letting me come.”

“Anything for Fern!” Lila said. “She’s my most prodigious client.” She shook her head in mock sorrow. “Poor thing never finds a keeper.”

Fern pulled me toward the bar. “I’m not interested in getting hooked,” she said over her shoulder, then whispered, “But I am interested in getting booze. Let’s grease our evening with some scotch.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I think I need my wits about me.”

Fern wiggled her finger at the bartender in a fitted black t-shirt, a scowling type who came instantly. “Trust me, it’s better with a buzz on.” She smiled at the boy. “Two Obans, neat,” she said.

“You got it,” he said, and winked.

Good grief. I turned my back to the bar, surveying the men walking through the door. Another woman talked to Lila, who handed her a sheet of paper.

Fern passed me my drink and pulled her arm through mine. “Let’s watch like vultures for the man-meat to come in.” She led me back to the six tables, each marked with a tiny “reserved” sign.

“Oh, Fern!” Lila called. “Your little friend needs to fill out the paperwork.” She waved a sheet of paper.

I sat down with the page and my pencil stub. Name, phone, address. I used Fern’s. “Use a throw away email,” Fern advised. “That way you can quit checking it if someone gets annoying.”

I rapidly filled out the blanks. Two men had come in together and stood just inside the door, glancing around. “You think they’re with us?” I asked.

“They’re gay,” Fern said, rolling her eyes. “Good grief.”

“They come to straight bars?”

“Stop talking, my dear. Someone might hear your ignorance.”

I bit my lip and refocused on the page. I had forgotten how mean Fern could be under stress. Despite her act, she must be a little unnerved by the prospect of meeting new men.

Three check boxes.

-- Single, never married.

-- Separated.

-- Divorced.

I checked “separated” and returned the form to Lila, who accepted it absently, still stuck in conversation. I lingered near her, pretending to look around, not really wanting to go near Fern again yet.

Three men came in the bar in quick succession. Lila waved her sign, and two of them headed toward her. Fern returned to my side. “Not Mark the Shark again,” she groaned. “He’s always at these things.”

“Did you go out with him?”

“Twice. Terrible in bed.”

“You slept with him on the second date?”

“No, on the first. We had two first dates, actually. One last year, and then we tried again a couple months ago. I thought maybe he would have learned something in the interim.”

“He hadn’t.”

“Not a thing.”

The taller of the two, tanned and clean cut in a ribbed sweater and pressed khakis, leaned against the table closest to us and said, “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this…again?”

“Hello, Mark,” Fern said. “I see you’re still trying to pick up first dates.”

He rubbed the light stubble on his upper lip. “Delightful as always. You brought a friend?”

Fern pushed me forward so my hips rammed a stool. “This is Zest,” she said. “She’s sweet and vulnerable, and I already warned her about you.”

He extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Zest.”

His fingers closed around mine, warm and firm in their grip. “Thank you.”

 “I should have made Lila give me the list.” Fern sipped her drink casually, but her grip on the glass was white-knuckled.

“I’m not as bad as Fern would make me out to be,” Mark said. “I just didn’t grovel at her oversized feet.”

Fern actually trembled. I had never seen her rattled. She tilted her head and faked a bitter smile. “Better big feet than a tiny dick.”

“It’s time!” Lila called. Quite a number of people were gathered in our corner of the bar. “Come closer, dears, so I don’t have to shout.”

She raised a card in the air. “Here is how it goes. Each of you will get one of these. On it, you will find the first name of each person you will meet. The bachelors will sit at the table and the ladies will pick where they want to go first. Each time I ring the bell,” she paused to demonstrate the tinkling sound, “the girls will move toward their next choice.”

She walked toward the line of tables. “Boys, you may go ahead and sit. Remember ladies, no pushing or shoving. All of you will get a chance to meet each other.”

Fern stepped forward and leaned to my ear. “Try to do your favorite choice first,” she said. “That’s when everyone is actually paying attention. It gets sort of tedious in the middle.” She gazed at the line of men taking their seats on the stools. “Mark can go in the no man’s land, but I’d put him,” she pointed to a friendly-looking man at the end, “as your top choice.”

Whatever. I’d be lucky to not get trampled in the shuffle.

“Get close to him,” Fern whispered. “Don’t let anyone else beat you to his table.” She glanced around, narrowing her eyes. “Several of the women have their misguided sights set on Mark.”

“Ready, ladies?” Lila called. “I’ll give you a one-minute warning when your session is near its end.”

The six women hovered, loose-limbed, poised as if ready to run the hundred-meter dash. All wore variations on black, trendy yet casual, with perfect hair and high heels, other than one woman who already seemed to be almost six feet tall.

I couldn’t stand the tension. It felt wrong, all wrong. And still, I hovered, knees bent, frizzed hair flat-ironed by Fern, ready to race to a man. Lila rang her gold bell, and we rushed, jostling each other to find a seat, like a bachelorette version of musical chairs.

I got to the stool opposite the friendly man just as another woman did. We fake-smiled at each other, neither giving in for a moment, and then I acquiesced.

The other women had settled into stools, so I chose the empty one. I quickly perched on it, arranging my skirt, then looked up.

The man wasn’t bad looking or ill dressed. He had an average build, neither wimpy or oversized. But something about him didn’t quite work. “I’m Joshua,” he said. “I’m not sure if we should shake, or wave, or what.” He laughed nervously.

“I’m Zest,” I said, my brain still trying to work out the problem. His teeth were fine. Hair cut, in normal range, a typical shaggy crew. Skin pale but clear. Maybe it was just bad chemistry, my set of likes not matching up to his qualities. But then, no one else had rushed for him.

“So what do you do, Zest?”

“I’m a photographer,” I answered automatically. Was it his eyes? They were grayish, and set close together. Or his nose? It seemed piggish, slightly upturned, maybe a bit feminine. Yes, he was very girly, only with boy-hair. That must be it. He’d do great in drag.

“Well, I’m an accountant,” he said, grimacing.

Oh crap, I’d been ignoring him. And staring.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have a tendency to evaluate people’s photogenic qualities. It can be…awkward.”

“Occupational hazard?” he asked. His smile was quirky, a little off center, but cute. He was all right, actually. I shouldn’t be so judgmental.

Unlike Fern. I stole a glance at her, leaning on her elbows, halfway across the table, gazing up at some long-hair who looked like an 80s throwback, but was, admittedly, gorgeous. I wondered briefly if she’d steered me to the other end of the room to keep me away from him, but the boy was far more her type than mine.

“Zest?”

Ohhh, focus. “So what do you do?” I asked.

He glanced away for a moment, drew a breath, and then returned. “An accountant.”

Shit. “Yes! You said that! I’m sorry. I’m new to this. I’m just a little…nervous, I guess.”