“I like a man who can make me laugh,” said Abby. “That’s probably the first thing I...”
Hypok nodded along. This sense-of-humor part was something he’d never understood was so important to women until he started the gig with the services. Make me laugh, he thought: do they want a husband or an entertainment center? She would run on now like they all did, just get them started on the qualities they wanted in a guy and you could sit back and think of things you’d like to do. He wondered how much Brittany looked like her mother. He wondered if Abby slept with the windows open when it was warm out, or if she used the air conditioner. She looked like an air conditioner type — neat, safety conscious, convenience oriented.
“Honesty is real important, too. I think that’s the basis of...”
Hypok studied her through the viewfinder. His brow nudged the rubber eyepiece and he pulled back a little. He still hadn’t gotten his depth perception right since getting rid of the glasses. Still bumping into things up close. He cupped his hand over his mouth and smelled his breath. He enjoyed her perfume from here, an outdoorsy, floral bouquet that would undoubtedly be described as “springlike.” It was a little bit like that baking soda concoction you dump onto your carpet before you vacuum. He pictured her vacuuming her living room on a Saturday morning — short shorts and tennies with no socks and a T-shirt probably, with her hair up and no makeup on. She’d have Alanis Morissette on the boom box. She’d be singing along. He pictured five-year-old Brittany in the bathtub surrounded by mounds of suds. He imagined running the bar of no-tears kiddy soap over her, his hands sliding on her soft, pliant body. Brittany would smile at him, maybe splash some suds. She’d be happy to be there. Why couldn’t a woman be more like a girl — nonverbal, intuitive and appreciative?
“... how you work through things, make things better.”
“What about being in touch with his feelings?” Hypok asked.
“Definitely. Women are always more in touch with their feelings and I think if a man could...”
Um-hm. Women are more in touch with their feelings, thought Hypok, the operative word being their. Watch them drive — they don’t pay any attention to things not directly in their vision. Watch them shop in a market — they’re only aware of their purpose, their list of items, their cart and their place in line. They are absolutely self-absorbed, self-serving and self-promoting. Their, their, their. And any notion that comes to a woman’s mind, no matter how ridiculous or damaging, she’s going to put words to it, yap it out loud. Why? Because it’s one of her feelings. And she’s in touch with them.
“... able to laugh and cry and really feel deeply.”
“Hear that guys?” Hypok asked genially. “Get in touch with your feelings or don’t even bother with Abby!”
“Does that sound demanding?”
“You can be demanding — that’s what Bright Tomorrows is all about. Okay now, enough serious stuff. Tell me about your family. You’ve got a little girl, don’t you? What’s her name?”
Even through the viewfinder Hypok could see the twinkle that came to Abby’s eyes and the wholesome flush of color that washed her cheeks. He just plain had to smile, too. Nothing in the world makes them prouder than their children. He brought his hand up to his mouth and smelled his breath again.
“Her name is Brittany. She’s five years and two months. She loves butterflies and ice cream. It’s a little hard to say, but I think she wants to be a motorcycle racer when she grows up.”
“A motorcycle racer!”
Hypok thought that the Websters, his netizen friends, would like to hear this one.
“She’s got this little...”
Um-hm, pink and violet bike in the backyard with a six-foot grapestake fence I can climb over without a sound.
“... all around the backyard, or in the park.”
“So, she must be in kindergarten by now?”
“A private one. They’re learning computers already.”
Isn’t everyone?
“You really sound proud of her, Abby.”
“She’s my sunshine, all right.”
Hypok backed away from the camera and smiled.
“Okay, Abby, here’s one that’s not in the script. Ready for this?”
“I guess so.” Giggles.
“Tell these men, what is a truly romantic evening for you? I mean, the romantic evening to end them all, the romantic evening of your dreams.”
She blushed just a little and threw back her hair. “Well... it would start off with a... a full body massage—”
“—Start off!”
His exclamation was a little strong: he could smell his deep-down breath in the air in front of him now. Like something crawled down his neck and died. He hoped she wouldn’t notice. He dug the breath drops out of his coat pocket and lost his face behind the camera as he squeezed a bunch of it onto his tongue. Cinnamon. It was amazing, he thought, that anything could live in that body of his, considering all the tequila he drank.
“Start off with a massage, and maybe a glass of champagne. I mean, he’d get one, too. Then, when we were totally limp, we’d get all dressed up and go for dinner at the Ritz-Carlton. Lobster for me, and a bottle of Chardonnay. Then we’d take a long walk on the beach with our shoes off. His tuxedo tie would dangle and my nylons would get damp... I mean the feet would...”
God, what an airhead, Hypok thought, smiling his best. Wait ’til the kiddy netters hear this. Wait ’til the Friendlies get a load of this one. She colored but recovered nicely.
“... but it wouldn’t matter because it would be summer and eighty degrees out and just perfect. Then, we’d go back to the hotel... have dessert... maybe a decaf espresso... then... well, the rest of it’s... confidential...”
She giggled and threw her hair back again.
“As well it should be, Abby! Thanks for talking with us today, and we wish you all the best bright tomorrows.”
Hypok turned off the recorder and hit the rewind control. “I think that was real good. Natural. Easy. A good sense of who you are.”
“Oh, God, I’m such a spaz. I can’t look.”
“Well, you really should. We’ll play it back and if you don’t like it, we’ll do it again.”
“That would be even worse.”
“No, really. Everyone’s afraid until they see the tape. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. You’re really very good on camera. Here.”
He plugged the camcorder into a monitor on the desk beside them. Abby leaned forward in anticipation, and Hypok leaned back. He always liked to see their reactions, liked to see the way they accepted the inevitable, even if it was just three minutes of video. You could tell a lot about a person by how they accommodated an uncomfortable situation. He blinked a couple of times in rapid succession: the new contact lenses made his eyes dry.
Abby smiled and shook her head and blushed a little, as he knew she would. But she watched very closely, fascinated by herself, her image, her being. Now she’ll say how strange it is to—
“—It’s really weird to see yourself on TV,” she said. “But I don’t look as nervous as I felt.”
“I told you, some nervousness isn’t a bad thing. I think you handled this romantic evening question real well. I always try to do at least one thing that’s spontaneous. Let the reflexive personality show through.”