The waitress twisted her hips professionally through the seats that strewed her path. It was a particularly busy afternoon at Café On The Bay. The waves below the patio crashed gently, and the gulls cawed at a level complimentary to conversational ambiance. The temperature lingered around a sensual seventy-five degrees.
“Pino grigio,” said the waitress collecting the empty glass after she placed the new one. “Gin and tonic…”
“Thank you.”
“Buffalo chicken salad.”
“That’s me.”
“And the turkey club, hold the mayo. Can I get your girls anything else at the moment?”
“I think we’re good. Thank you.”
“Thank you!”
“Yooou’rrre welllcommme,” the waitress said exorbitantly before she vanished.
Two girls spread napkins on their laps and pulled up their chairs. Ruth touched the top of each toothpick protruding from her massive sandwich and asked: “So, if the letter was addressed to John, then why did you open it?”
“Well, Ruth, what a predictable question. Because…”
“Because?”
“I’m a psychopath.”
“Pathetic,” scoffed Ruth as she swilled her cheap pinot grigio. Hannah sighed and stabbed a fork full of bleu cheese covered iceberg lettuce and cucumbers. The corners of her mouth turned white. She chewed. “You know—I…” She chewed more.
“Hannah, do you, A, want to be with a guy that you don’t trust, or, B, want to be with a guy that’s okay with being with a girl,” Ruth tips her glass towards Hannah, “that’s craa-zaay?”
“No, okay, listen, this is going to sounds strange.”
“I hope it does,” said Ruth taking a bite of her sandwich.
“It’s just that…” Hannah chased an olive around the rim of her plate.
“Fuck, get on with it.”
“I’ve always been this really lackadaisical girlfriend, you know? Laid back, laissez-faire. I’m sexy, or whatever, but I’m also very easily one of the guys, unobtrusive—”
“Unless you’re drunk,” said Ruth as she washed a fry in ketchup, “then you’re like fu—”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“Sure.” Chomp. She conceded.
“So, I don’t know, I guess I always had some weird kind of respect, or maybe not respect, but some backwards kind of envy for those crazy girls, you know? Those chicks who call up their boyfriends and straight off the bat go ‘Tony, where the fuck are you? Who are you with? Is that a girl I hear in the background, ‘cause so help me god Tony if that’s a fuckin’ girl I hear I’m gonna tear up your nuts layer by layer.’”
“Ew.”
“Yea, or like, they fuckin’ read the dude’s phone bills, and check the mileage on their cars or like call up his friends and say, ‘Peter, are you with Timmy?’”
“Tony.” Crunch.
“Yea, ‘Are you with Tony, Peter? Lemme talk to him, I need to talk to him and tell him that his dick isn’t even big enough to fuck a fuckin’, you know, tiny Chihuahua or some shit.’ And then Peter covers the phone and goes, ‘Yo Tony your crazy ass girlfriend is on the phone, she said your dick isn’t even big enough to fuck a Chihuahua.’ And then all his boys start laughing at him, and he says, ‘Shut up Peter’ and pushes him and then grabs the phone and says, ‘Hello, aw, hi babe, yea, I was just coming home…’ You know?” Hannah said whimsically, “Ruth?”
She shoved a dripping buffalo chicken chunk into her mouth and masticated thoughtfully. Ruth picked her napkin up off her lap, dipped it in her pinot grigio, reached across the table and cleaned the sides of Hannah’s mouth.
“Yes, dear. I know.” Ruth sighed and replaced her napkin.
The two girls sat for a moment, silently contemplating the complexities of love. Ruth polished off the second quarter of her club; Hannah chased the same olive. It was a metaphor. She looked at Ruth with shiny eyes. Ruth searched for words but found only her cloudy pinot grigio.
“Well, babe, you’re off to a good start.” Ruth said encouragingly.
“Not really.”
Ruth drank.
“The letter was from his grandmother." Hannah breathed out. "I should have known, my grandma has the exact same handwriting.”
