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NOTES: I got a phone call from the editor at O U I . "I want a short story," quoth he. "Sure," I said. I had been thinking about this idea all day. Serendipitous, it seemed. I wrote it, sent it, and got it back. "Too heavy," he said. I sent him a spy story. They bought that one.by Hart Williams � 1985
It is December again. Archer's time, and I am going to spend the holidays alone. Usually when I break up with a girl I have the good sense to do it at some more fortuitous time of the year. Not that year. No way. The big blowup came right after Halloween, and Thanksgiving saw us squabbling over the last of our possessions like two dobermans with a beefsteak. I bit my tongue for a couple of weeks, showed up at the bar and offered half-ass excuses for my absence. You don't want to poison your favorite watering hole by bringing your lady of the moment in and introducing her to your friends. You never know when you might need a shoulder to cry on. I spent a couple days talking it out, and then somebody in the Cosmic Romance Corps decided to throw me a bone.
Akimbo is the way I remember her. Standing there all four-foot-six of her her knuckles on her waist and her arms out defiantly, daring anyone to invade her space. You just had to see her, all spitfire and kitten-brave. My heart went thud in my chest, and I didn't even want her. I just ... I don't know. I felt something. Dark haired, curled, deep dark eyes, cupid lips, and an undershot jaw not much, just enough to give the impression of somebody you didn't want to take too lightly. Large breasts for her size and a lot of curves. She was standing in leather boots with ten-inch heels, which made her about five-four. "Haven't I met you in another incarnation?" I asked, wiseass. "Flake off, jerk," she said. "Not `jerk,'" I said. "Tom. Tom Wade." I stretched out my paw. She looked up at me with her best molten glare, and relented ten seconds later when she saw I hadn't budged. Her face screwed up into a delicate smile. Or maybe a wry grin; she grabbed my hand. "Patti," she said. "Sit down. I'm small." I did. She eyed me and announced: "Six foot, right?" "And seven-eighths," I said. "Well?" she asked. "Well what?" "Are you going to order us a round?" I could see it was a test. I looked her over and decided. I called over to Paul, the bartender, who knew me, when one of the barmaids decided she didn't. "Two Tom Collins, tequila instead of vodka." "Hmmm," she said. "That sounds interesting." She sat down. She was still akimbo, but she was curious.
You don't go home on the first meeting anymore. I sort of like that. Gives you time to think about it. I've been with too many women, I guess. I keep thinking about my poor papa, married to one woman his whole life. And for two thousand years of fathers, and fathers' fathers. Yeah. I used to think it was criminal, only knowing one woman in your whole life. Now, I'm getting older, and I look at my hairline receding, and my teeth going in little grinds. And my papa's still with momma. Me? Well, I've been with a lot of women. I guess I'll leave it to my son to choose whose way was better. Of course, that's assuming he's still alive. I haven't seen him in five years. I never should have married that second time.
Patti relented and scribbled her phone number on the back of a paper Coors coaster. I went home and thought about my second wife. I always think about my second wife. Next day, I phoned her up. I waited until seven-fifteen, thinking I'd outsmart the timing, and catch her between work and going out. I got her roommate instead, and, rather than fumble, just left my number. No call. I lied to myself, and told me that I'd never really expected to hear from Patti again, anyway. I'm blessed with an infinite capacity for self-deception, so I bought it. Next night, I got home, fed Ramon, my neutered alley-cat, and long-suffering friend. He's been with me through most of my mixed-up love life. He purred, and ate his Friskies. I tossed my tie in the kitchen sink to soak with the dishes, and debated waiting another week. The phone rang. "Ted?" a female voice said. "Nobody by that name here," I said. "I'm sorry," she said. "I must have a wrong number." "What number were you dialing?" I asked. She told me, and we figured it out. Patti. Tom. And the dream machine started clanking in my head. Patti. Tom & Patti. The movies. Her friends. The whole thing, in technicolor. We decided to go out. "You like movies?" I asked. "Foreign or Hollywood?" she retorted, and I could almost see her standing there, arms akimbo, waiting for me to rise to the challenge. "All kinds," I said. "I like all kinds of movies." "Hmmmm," she said. "Sounds interesting."
Every time I feel like I'm going to fall in love, I start pulling back. I want to turn around and run like hell, post Ramon at the door, and change my phone number. Women scare me, now. I thought I understood them, but the older I get, the less I undestand, and the wounds run too deep for me to leave something as precious and fragile as my heart in the hands of an utterly alien creature.
I played it safe and took her to the Chinese. It doesn't matter what's playing there. The theater itself is so nice, so plush, such good sound, that it doesn't matter if the movie's a bore. We walked Hollywood Boulevard after that, and I played the Protector role for my diminunitive female. It was difficult keeping in step we'd progressed through the handholding, and arm intertwining phases in the movie but we managed it. I took her back to her apartment, and didn't feel like pushing my luck. I kissed her at the door, and next thing I knew, my pulse was racing, and her tongue and mine were shaking hands, if that's not mixing the metaphor. I quit while I was ahead, and we made a date to make a date. I drove home with the scent of her perfume in my nostrils, and her taste in my mouth.
I still dream about my second wife. No one has ever affected me like she did. By comparison, the seven years of my first marriage are a faint memory. And everything since has been a sham. I try to get ahold of her every now and again, but she's married, I guess, and I wish her well. Just because I still love her doesn't mean she has to love me. It's one of those little curves Life likes to throw us.
Saturday night found me in front of my bathroom mirror, a towel draped around my sagging middle, my fingers pulling at the folds of my face. Brushing teeth, shaving, after-shaving, and all of that stuff. I was putting on my game face. I pulled out Doubting Thomas, and stroked him until he was hard, just to make sure of the plumbing. You get older, and you can't get it up as often as you used to. You break up too many times, and you have to play the mind-games with yourself when it fails you a time or two. The most horrifying scene in Life: She reaches down and latches lovingly onto your soft penis. Then she frowns. She looks into your eyes: "I don't arouse you," she says. I've seen that one a few times.
Dinner, date, and back. Patti opening the door, her arms, and her mouth. My lips on hers, and warm breath travelling between us. That fumbling introduction to the vaguely disconcerted dog, who eyes you as she leads you by the hand into her bedroom for the first time. Serious Mating Behavior. I walked into her room, caught my foot in a pile of her clothes on the floor, caught my balance. "I'm so embarrassed," Patti said, "The place is such a mess, and I haven't had time to clean it, this week." "Don't worry about it," I said. After awhile, it becomes a litany for the lonely and the broken. This conversation was not new, and hadn't been for many years, for either of us. Patti pulled me close, and we fell onto the bed, kissing. I slipped a hand up her blouse, and felt her breasts. Full, still firm, nipple hard through the sheer bra. She ran a hand down my thigh, once, twice with nails, and caught the latch of my zipper. She tugged at it, and looked down at her prize, extracting it and squeezing it. I could tell there weren't going to be any problems with Doubting Thomas tonight. "Hmmm," she said. "Looks interesting." And she slid down to get a better view, arms akimbo.
We laid in bed in the Land of Afterwards, sharing a cigarette, and boring each other with our lives. She had been married at least twice, worked as an executive with an insurance company, probably made more money than I did, and did I feel like doing it again. I did, and we did, to my surprise, before we got back to the story. Sunday morning found us talking, and her dog sticking his wet nose under the covers. I still didn't know Patti. Funny, but the quality that first attracted me didn't seem to be in the bed anywhere, or perhaps I'd forgotten it. The glow faded quickly too quickly. I showered, dressed and beat a quick retreat before we realized we didn't really have anything to say to each other. But I was roped into meeting her mother at a little Christmas party she was throwing on Christmas Eve. "I'll make sure everyone leaves early," she whispered in my ear, and licked it. She was standing in her robe at the door of her apartment, arms folded across her chest. I turned and waved and walked to my car.
Endings are all tied up with beginnings, someway. Every girl I've ever loved and lost had the end written in the very first paragraph. I don't know why. Maybe God's a more careful screenwriter than we give him credit for. We broke up at the bar, three months later. The trouble was with her Mother, who couldn't stand me, and the feeling was mutual. And the trouble was with me, who wasn't considerate, thoughtful, or a thousand other things. The trouble was with Patti, who was a pushy short person, and given to temper tantrums, and ran hot and cold sexually. But that wasn't it. I remember that last time, and I realize what it was.
Patti laid next to me in the bed. She smelled heavenly. And in the candlelight, she was the most beautiful embodiment of music, art, and poetry that I'd ever seen. She wanted to make love, and with her it was making love, not just screwing. I wanted to make love, but something was wrong. I felt a magnetic repulsion. The more I wanted her, the more I felt myself moving away. "Thomas?" Patti asked, rubbing me, "Don't you ... I mean, aren't you feeling up to it? If you aren't, it's all right. I know you've been working around the clock to finish up that bid." Something inside of me wanted to explode. I didn't know what it was. I wanted to be away from Patti more than I've ever wanted to be away from anyone. I don't understand it. I still don't understand it. We made love anyway.
I don't go back to the bar, anymore. I broke my rule, and ruined it. I understand that Patti still goes in. We never really moved in together, so there wasn't much property to fight over. She kept one of my shirts to sleep in, I guess. And I kept some polaroids of her that we shot one night when we were drunk. I wonder if she even remembers them. I hid them in the bottom of a box that sits in the closet Ramon has his catbox in. I probably won't even run across them for three or four years, and when I do, I'll wonder why I'm even holding on to them. I think I loved Patti. But something inside me is broken. I've been with too many women, and now there's nothing left inside me. I screw three or four girls on a semi-regular basis, but we're more like fucking friends. No emotional attachments. My heart's all akimbo, and it's like I'm standing in front of every woman I meet as if to say: "Go on. I dare you to fall in love with me." But nobody takes me up on it, these days. end
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ritten in no particular genre
that I can identify. 
