The night before my flight, we decided we would try to make halfway decent-tasting pizza and indulge in a double feature of Meryl Streep’s campiest DVD rentals. I curled up on one end of Katrina’s sofa, a plate of pizza in my lap and a Sam Adams waiting on a coaster.
“It’s good, but it’s not anywhere close to what we call pizza,” I said. “I don’t know how you live without it.”
“It’s the flautas and the pico de gallo that get me through the dark times,” she replied with a grin.
That wavy chestnut hair, those sage-green eyes, the strong chin and girlish smile: she was so beautiful it hurt to look at her. I couldn’t figure out what had happened. As adolescents, we were inseparable for nearly ten years, even went to the same undergrad college, and all the while, I never looked at her as anything more than my best friend. Now, it seemed, she was the woman I’d been searching for my whole life—gorgeous, confident, driven, boldly sexual—and now I feared even the friendship was ruined.
“Remember the time we drove all the way down to New Haven because we heard they made the best pizza in America?” she said, before becoming aware of my sudden brooding. “Al, is everything okay?”
I nodded and contrived a smile for her. “Oh, watch this.” I diverted her attention from my demeanor to our favorite scene in Death Becomes Her when Goldie Hawn bashes Meryl’s character in the face with a shovel.
When the movie was over, Katrina broached the subject again. “Ally, are we going to talk about what happened the other night?”
I stared at the television. “It didn’t seem like you wanted to talk about it.”
“Well, I do,” she said quietly and then touched my arm so I’d look at her. “I didn’t just use you as an experiment.”
“I didn’t think that, Kat. I just don’t know what to say.”
She struggled to form the question. “Do you think you could like me in that way?”
I laughed at the question. “I already do, Katrina. But tomorrow I’m getting on a plane back to Massachusetts.”
“Don’t go.”
“I have to. I’ve got a schedule full of clients to see Monday.”
Reality deflated her. “Oh. Yeah, I guess that was a stupid suggestion.”
I clasped her hand. “No, it wasn’t. It was the sweetest suggestion I’ve ever heard.”
She leaned over and kissed me gently, her lips tangy from tomato sauce. “We still have tonight. And let’s face it. This pizza sucks.”
I pulled her on top of me and we spent the rest of the evening in various stages of undress cavorting around her living room furniture.
In Katrina’s car at the airport terminal, a pathetic cloud of gloom hovered, both of us on the verge of quivering bottom lips.
“I had such a great time. I’m so glad you came,” Katrina said.
“Me too—in every sense of the word.”
She giggled and swatted my arm. “Will you call me when you get in?”
“Sure. And make sure you let me know how that case turns out.”
“You’ll be the first one I call.”
We avoided eye contact, a lifelong friendship now more awkward than a first dance in junior high.
“God, how I hate small talk. Katrina, I think I’m in love with you.”
A limo driver behind us honked his horn.
“Oh, I wish you didn’t have to leave.” She grabbed my face and smothered my lips in a wet kiss.
Damn limo driver blared the horn even longer this time.
“You better go,” she said, pushing me away from her.
As the skycap grabbed my bags, I leaned into the passenger window with a helpless smile. “I’ll call you.”
I watched her drive away until her brake lights blended into the late morning sun. If this had been a Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan film, one of them surely would have run after Katrina’s car and jumped on the trunk as it left the drop-off area. I certainly wanted to.
WALK LIKE A MAN
D. L. King
Now there’s something you don’t see every day: a 1958 pink-and-gray Mercury Park Lane, windows rolled down and Chubby Checker’s “Do the Twist” blaring from the radio. The light changed, and I stepped into the crosswalk. He had his signal on to turn onto the avenue, but I’d be damned if I’d let him before I got across. Taking my time, I got a good look. Early thirties, maybe, he seemed to have a trim build, but then, he was sitting in the car. Anyway, the top half of him looked good. He was wearing a white T-shirt that fit just right, one sleeve rolled up, hiding a solid square box underneath. Looked like he had a wooden match between his teeth. His dark hair was shiny and slicked back into a DA that could cut glass.
“Whoo, good golly Miss Molly, you look fine tonight!”
I stared at him as he took the turn. “It’s a little cold to be driving around with the windows down and dressed like that, isn’t it?”
“Oh, baby, I’m always hot. An’ I know I got a hunka burnin’ love for you!” He pulled over to the curb after rounding the corner. The car looked brand new. The chrome flashed in the glow of the streetlight, and the song on the radio changed to “Sherry” by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons.
“Dude, you late for a Back to the Future convention?”
He leaned across the bench seat and put his head out the window. “Hey, doll, you just gonna stand there gawking or are you gonna come over here for a better look? Bet you ain’t never seen anything this fine.”
I took my time walking over, staying a few feet from his window. I live in Brooklyn; I’m not an idiot… but his ride was definitely fine. “Dude, I’ve seen classic wheels before, but this one is mint. Hell, it’s better than mint; it looks brand new. Yeah, it is fine.”
“Oh, come on, sugar, what makes you think I was talking about the car?” He laughed then, and somehow, miraculously, the match stayed put.
“Yeah? I was talking about the car.” Now that I was closer, I gave him the once-over. He was slighter than I’d first thought, with what looked like a nice, tight, compact body, muscular arms and small hands. He sure could wear the shit out of that T-shirt. “Where’d you get this, man?”
“Come on,” he said, and pushed the door open. “I’ll take you for a spin.”
The red interior of the Merc was cherry. Its siren call whispered, “Slide into me for the thrill of a lifetime.” But, not in the habit of getting into strange cars with even stranger guys, I shook my head. “Thanks. Some other time, maybe.”
As I turned to walk away, I heard him say, “You can drive.”
The thoughts whizzed between my ears. Oh, baby, look at that fuckin’ car… If I have the keys, I’m safe… Fuckin’ hot—he’s so fuckin’… He’s just a little guy; I could take him, and Thinks he’s hot shit… Let’s see what he thinks later…
The song had changed to “Runaway” by Del Shannon. I walked around the back, running my hand over the smooth-as-glass paint job, as he pulled the passenger door closed with a satisfying chunk. I could feel the solidity of the body when I pressed the button on the ancient handle and swung the door open. There were no pits or bumps in the chrome—none. He slid over to the other side of the vast seat to make room for me and held the keys out, finger through the ring. Two keys hung down: one for the ignition and one for the door and trunk, along with a gaudy, naked, cheesecakey girl. I grabbed the keys from his finger before sliding in behind the wheel.
I noticed his jeans (Levi’s—naturally faded, not stonewashed) and his work boots (small feet). Small feet and hands I thought, I can never remember what that’s supposed to mean. There was a prominent bulge.