how Muriel affords clothing like this or her pretty one-bedroom in Porter Square. I don’t know how everyone else is getting by, paying their bills and sleeping through the night.
She doesn’t try anything on and when we’re back on the street, she says, ‘Have you read his books yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘How can you not have read them?’
‘It will mess with me. It’ll sway me one way or the other. It always does.’
‘But it’s important information.’
‘Is it? It’s so easy to get the guy and the writing confused.’ If Oscar made clay pots I wouldn’t care. I could look at his pots and love them or hate them and it would have no bearing on how I felt about him. I wish I could feel as neutral about writing as I do about clay pots.
‘Don’t you want to at least read the sex scenes?’
‘No!’
‘He likes to write about sex.’
‘Stop.’
‘Can I just tell you this one thing about his sex scenes?’
I can tell she’s been saving this for a while. ‘No. Okay. One thing.’
‘He always uses the word “sour.” ’
‘Sour?’
‘It’s just something I’ve noticed. Usually pertaining to the woman: sour breath, sour skin. Something is always sour. It’s like a tic he has.’
She is laughing hard at the expression on my face.
Oscar meets me after my Friday night shift. His mother is spending the night so he can sneak out of the house when I’m free. She made a carrot cake for dessert, and he brings a big slice. We share it as we walk down Mass. Ave. It’s delicious. When we’re done and he balls the cellophane in his pocket, he takes my hand. He has a plump, warm hand.
‘My mother is very nervous about this. She thinks you’re going to break my heart.’ He laughs like it’s an absurd idea and kisses me. I smile while we’re kissing, thinking about telling Muriel later that we both tasted sour because of the lemon in the frosting, and he feels me smile and smiles wider.
I like kissing Oscar. He breaks it up with things that come into his head, a student he had with twelve fingers, Jasper biting him hard on the thigh during John’s T-ball game that afternoon. There isn’t that feeling you get with some guys, like they’re barreling toward one place and one place only and seeing how fast they can get there without complication or too much conversation.
We have beers at the Cellar, and he walks me back to my bike outside Iris where he parked his car. He leans me against the passenger door, his hands on my hips.
‘These,’ he says. ‘These are real baby-making hips.’
I laugh. I’m actually pretty narrow in the hip. I’ve often wondered how a whole baby would come through.
We kiss for a long time, and I feel him nestle in along the hollow between a baby-making hip and my pelvic bone. It fits nicely there.
‘Mmm,’ he says. ‘Snug.’
I tell Harry about the date at lunch the next day.
‘Good heavens,’ he says. ‘Is that what it’s like with writers? The word “snug” and you’re mad in love?’
‘I’m not mad in love.’
‘The man is in his forties with two bloody children.’
Later when we’re in the weeds and I’m frantically replenishing the tea box for a six-top of librarians, he says, ‘Move your baby makers, sweetheart. I need a steak knife.’
And when it’s over he tells me there’s a cute guy in the hallway who wants to see me.
‘See? He’s adorable, right?’
‘I don’t think this is your daddy complex.’
‘He looks a lot younger than forty-five. And fuck you. It’s not a daddy complex.’
I make him check my teeth for poppy seeds and go to the door.
It’s not Oscar. It’s Silas. The sight of him gives me a jolt. He looks younger, leaner. He’s wearing a black leather jacket, an old one, with deep creases and corroded zippers on the pockets.
‘Sorry to pull you out of work. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.’
‘It’s fine.’ I wave toward my tables through the door. ‘Most of the checks are down. How are you? How was your trip?’ I’m trying to calculate how long since he’s been back. Two weeks probably. He left me a couple of messages then gave up. I’m done with guys like this, on and off, here then gone. I’ve learned my lesson.
‘Good. Good.’ There’s a stack of business cards on the hostess stand and he flicks them with his thumb. Fftht. Fftht. He looks up. ‘I’m sorry I broke our date. I