Mary Lynn Reed
True Things Thirty minutes standing at the bar, me complaining of my loneliness. She takes a long drag of beer, and asks, “Have you reconsidered dating?” “I have no time or energy for that nonsense again,” I say. She nods, sets the beer down. “You can call me. More than monthly, you know.” Her eyes dart above my head, searching for sports scores on the big screen TV. “You’re a lousy listener,” I say. “How many women can you ignore at one time?” She laughs. That short, muscular laugh that matches her body. On the walk to the subway, we step over a soaker hose, dragged across the sidewalk. “Grass has been dead all summer,” she says. “It finally rains and now they’re watering the sidewalk.” I think I’m dodging the worst of it, but after we pass, my jeans are soaked through. We hug goodbye, and she says, “I’m serious. Call me. I’ll listen.” “Sure,” I say. We both know I won’t. We’ve been walking away from each other for thirty years. I feel the dampness on the back of my calves all the way home.
I see the drunk kid before John does. We’re standing outside the Mexican place with the colorful chairs and the Mariachi music playing at full volume. The kid is singing some song about love, but the words aren’t connecting. John and I keep talking, as the kid circles around us. “You’ll be fine,” John says. “We’re survivors. Isn’t that what you always tell me?” How young is this kid? Twenty? John and I were doing shots of tequila at grad school parties before this kid was even alive. “Hey!” the kid yells. “Whatz yer prob-lhem?” 6
