The Hound and Horse

Jas looked naked, Will thought. She walked into The Hound and Horse, the sunlight from the doorway momentarily slicing through the pub’s perpetual dimness. Her hair was pulled back, she was wearing jeans and sneakers, no jewelry. Jas always wore jewelry. Even in the shower she had on some ring or necklace that she hadn’t thought to take off. She’d lost weight, he noted, taking inventory of her, not a lot, but enough.

They hadn’t spoken in six months. Will had counted on the calendar when he’d gotten her voicemail. Six months of nothing and then, “Hey Will, its me... Jas... Jasmine. Can we meet up? How about The Hound on friday? About six? Call me, kay?” It hadn’t ended that well, in the end. Or what he’d thought was the end. Hadn’t ended that badly, if he was honest. He’d heard worse. Will rubbed his palms over his face and looked back at her as she crossed the room. She use to strip, Will remembered, before they’d met. He raised his hand to greet her. He didn’t stand up.

“Hey,” she said somewhat hesitantly, while leaning down to kiss his cheek. She missed. Grazed his ear instead.

Will nodded at her as she slid into the booth across from him.

“How’ve you been?” she asked, tilting her head slightly to the side. Did he hear pity in her voice? Concern? Screw you, he thought.

“Great,” Will said, a little too enthusiastically.

“Oh! Great.”

Will looked away, scanned the room. The Hound and Horse, or The Hound as they’d always call it, was their place. It was a valiant attempt at a posh British pub. Dark, green walls, framed prints of nondescript paintings of horses, hounds, or both. They’d even managed to hire an older British bartender. But is was all a little rundown, a little sad. That's what Will and Jas had liked about it. Something posh gone to rot. The stools at the bar didn’t match anymore. Most of the many mirrors, put up at some point in a misguided attempt to bring in more space, were cracked.

Jas was starring at him.

“What’s on your face?”

Shit! Will thought, turning his face to the mirror next to them. Nearly giving himself whiplash. Toilet paper, he’d guessed. He’d shaved before coming, but he was tired. Tired he told himself, not nervous. He was tired and had cut himself. A few times. Nothing, he thought moving his face around. Damn crap lighting, what was she seeing?

“I don’t see anything,” he accused, turning, more slowly, back to her.

She pointed at her own eyebrow.

Will’s hand touched the bar in his eyebrow. Shit. He’d forgotten. He really did need to take that thing out, he told himself. “I like it,” he said.

She raised her shoulders, giving him a look of ‘what can I say?’

Will felt like shit. “So, you want a drink or something?”

“Yeah, um. I can get them.”

“No.” Will stated firmly, standing up. “I’ll get them.” After a few steps Will turned back. Jas was chewing on the skin around her thumb nail. “Same?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she smiled at him, sadly.

Screw you, he thought, as his stomach dropped.

“So, what do you want Jasmine?” Will asked, settling a half pint of cider down in front of her. He never called her Jasmine. Had never called her Jasmine.

“Want?” she asked, glass paused halfway between table and her mouth.

“Yeah. Want. Why am I here?”

“I wanted to see you,”

Will waited for a better answer. An answer he could do something with.

“I had heard... I’d heard you weren’t doing that well.”

“You’ve lost weight,” Will threw back at her.

“What!” Jas’ head jolted back in surprise.

“Who told you I wasn’t doing that well? I’m great. I’m doing fabulous.” Fabulous? he thought. “Who said I wasn’t?”

“I’ve lost weight?” Jas drew the words out quietly, looking down at the table. “It doesn’t matter who told me,” she replied looking into his eyes.

“Doesn’t matter to you,” Will muttered, taking a deep drink and looking away. The neon Harp sign behind the bar was on the fritz. It was blinking a little.

Jas reached out her hand, grazing her fingers against Will’s own, wrapped around his glass. She drew back sharply. As if he’d burned her.

Will swallowed. He looked over at her hands. At the fingers that had touched him. “Why does it matter?”

“I love you... loved you,” she emphasized the “d”. Duh.

Will nodded, staring at her hand. “You’ve lost weight,” he stated to her fingers.

“So have you.”

“No.” He shook his head, staring at that hand. “Ten pounds.”

“What?”

“Gained. Ten pounds,” Will said looking up at her. He smiled. Held up his glass. He’d been drinking a lot these last months. It was starting to catch up with him.

She smiled back at him. A curl was coming lose near her right ear. “I’ve lost weight.”

They both took a drink.

“What are we doing here?” he asked.

“I wanted to see you.”

“You already said that.”

She shrugged. Bit the skin near her nail.

“Don’t,” he said softly, reaching across the table, moving her hand away from her mouth.

“Its gotten worse lately,” she admitted in seeming amazement, staring down at her thumb. “It bled the other day.”

“Its gonna get infected.”

“I clean my hands a lot.”

“It’ll scar.”

“Maybe I’ll get some of that stuff.”

Will had been trying to get her to use this gel that mothers put on their children’s fingers to force them to stop chewing their nails. It tastes awful. Apparently. That was more than a year ago.

The bartender was pulling clean glasses out of the rack and stacking them behind the bar. It wasn’t the old authentic British bartender. Rod was working today. He was about twenty five and from Texas. He was humming a Modest Mouse song, Will couldn’t hear which.

“What have you been reading lately?” Jas asked.

“What?” Will hadn’t been listening. “Reading? Um. Nothing much. Why?”

“I’m just curious. I read this really good book about a guy who was born in Azerbaijan and then lived in Berlin and pretended to be a Muslim, but wasn’t.”

“That’s what it was about?”

“Yeah. Well, sort of, anyway, it was good. A journalist wrote it.”

“Hm.” Will took a drink. This was awkward, maybe he shouldn’t have come. He’d wanted to see her, but maybe it would have been better to stay home. But that would have driven him crazy too. She seemed, somehow... more.... in his head. “I just finished a book about China. Well, it was about the Cultural Revolution and the destruction of distinctive environments, pollution, endangered animals. A little slow, but interesting.”

“China? I didn’t know you were into China.”

“Well, I’m not really, I guess. But it was in the library and it looked good. I saw it, and thought about how you were always on about the environment and pollution and that, I remembered you saying someth...” Will cut off mid word. She was staring at him. Shit. He’d said too much. “I mean, it looked interesting. Anyway, it was. Interesting.”

“You miss me?”

“Jas, seriously. What am I doing here?” He looked at her for a minute, waiting for a response. A reaction. She was staring at his chest, avoiding his face. “Do you miss me?” he continued. “Is that what this is about? You’ve gotta give me something here.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know.” There was a shattering noise. Rod had dropped a glass. Some guy on one of the mismatched stools laughed and clapped. Rod told him to fuck off.

Bacon

The glitter felt gritty beneath Mai’s shoes. She stood for a moment starring down in the chaos. The tiny red metallic pieces reflected the fractured midday sun. They stuck to her sneakers, the sidewalk, the lollypop dropped disastrously moments ago. They swayed in the run off, accumulated from last nights rain, in the gutter.

“Merry Christmas!” bellowed one of the over stuffed and teetering Santas as he passed. Girls in red velvet threw more glitter from the back of a truck. “And what do you want this year, little girl?” a teenage elf asked a toddler in pigtails, while he leered at Mai.

Mai grimaced and attempted to turn around. The city was having it’s annual Christmas parade. It was December 11th.

“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock...” screamed a loud speaker tied atop a cider stand. ‘Hot cider $5. Waffles $3. Mulled Wine - ID Required.” the chalkboard read in red, white, and green capital letters. “Rocking around the Christmas tree...” the hamburger van’s competing loud speaking yelled back.

Mai sighed as she motivated herself to push through the crowd of young families, teenage cliques, and elderly people. What am I doing here? she thought, turning sideways, shoulder shoved high, to shimmy through an obese family unit. “Sorry, excuse me, sorry,” she muttered without conviction as she pushed, slide, and danced her way toward the hot cocoa stand.

“Merry Christmas!” sang the teenager inside the window decked out in a pointed green hat, pointed ears, and a showgirl smile. It really was amazing what orthodontists and money could do, thought Mai.

“Hi,” she smiled weakly in response, while digging around inside her messenger bag for her wallet. The corduroy monstrosity held two books, a note book, four pens and a highlighter, a small Spanish-English dictionary, a bottle of water, keys, two tubes of lip balm, two elastic hair bands, a handkerchief, a mobile phone, a camera, a bag of roasted nuts she had purchased about twenty minutes ago and not eaten, a bag to use if she needed an extra bag, and, somewhere, a wallet. “Sorry, I can never find anything in here.”

“Hot chocolate?” the Colgate commercial prompted.

“Yes, please” Mai smiled again.

“Dark, milk, or white?”

“Um, I don’t know. What’s best?”

“Best? Well, they’re all good,” she nodded slightly as though agreeing with someone else’s statement.

“Which do you like best?”

“I really wouldn’t know.”

Mai paused, her own smile was beginning to feeling a bit forced. “Milk.”

“Excellent choice. Size?”

“Medium. No whipped cream.”

“You sure? The whipped cream is really good.”

Mai tried to suppress the image of the girl eating cups of whipped cream through perfectly crafted teeth. “Positive. Thanks.” A passing frazzled mom in an out of date trench coat rammed into Mai as she was paying.

“Jimmy, I said no,” she whispered in a tone used only by mothers and cartoon villains.

“Would you like a cookie to go with your hot cocoa?” asked Colgate in a tone that sounded simultaneously mocking and propositioning. She held up a reindeer shaped, cellophane wrapped, technicolor cookie twice the size of Mai’s hand.

“Um. No, thanks” Mai smiled, grabbing for her paper cup.

“Merry Christmas!” shouted at least ten people in the crowd.

“Jesus is your savior, dear” assured an elderly woman attempting to push a Jews for Jesus pamphlet into Mai’s free hand.

Why am I here? Mai asked herself, again.

Mai had awoken that morning with no plans to attend the Christmas parade and accompanying carnival. She had awoken that morning with no plans at all. As her alarm kicked on the voices of NPR commentators, Mai had stretched her body so that her toes curled over the foot and her fingers over the head of her bed.

“Arugh,” she sighed in pleasure and buried her face further into her pillow. It was Saturday and there would be no demands on her. She scratched her head, flipped over, and rubbed her face. The commentators were talking about Pakistan, as the often did of late. Sunlight was streaming from the curtains and Mai knew that it was at least two hours past when her mother would think was a reasonable time to sleep in. Mai lived alone. In living alone Mai had no one to tend too and no one to narc on her if she failed to tend competently to herself. She wiggled her toes out from beneath the duvet and thought about coffee.

Mai’s apartment was not large. It was a one bedroom flat in a converted house. She lived in a back apartment on the ground floor. She had a small kitchen, a good sized common room, an adequately sized bathroom, and a bedroom just big enough for a bed and dresser of which the bottom two drawers really did not open. But Mai was happy with her island of “all me alone time.” She had filled her good sized common room with a hand me down couch, a large reading chair, an old desk upon which her grandfather had written dirty detective novels, and enough books to fill at least 30 boxes. Mai enjoyed a good book. Mai even enjoyed a bad book, if it was bad in the right ways.

This morning the floors of her flat were cold. Mai kept meaning to buy slippers, but with no one at home to nag her with reminders of “well, of course your feet are cold you still haven’t bought any slippers” she continually forgot.

“Cold,” she said to herself, tucking her feet up onto the rungs of her singular kitchen chair after turning on the coffee pot. Not being a morning person, Mai ground the coffee beans and filled the water tank of the coffee machine the night before so that in the morning she would only need to press “on”. Her laptop was sitting in it’s usual spot on the kitchen table.

“What is going on in the world this morning?” Mai asked the inanimate object. The screen light up with the comforting and familiar hum. As the computer was doing whatever it is that computers do in order to function properly, and truly Mai had no idea what that was, Mai braved the cold floor once again to examine the contents of her refrigerator.

Bacon.

Oh, yes, though Mai with excessive pleasure, bacon. Mai had once dated a man who was horrified to learn of Mai’s love of bacon.

“Bacon?” he questioned with incredulity.

“Bacon” she nodded, smiling.

“Really? You know how bad that is for you, right?”

“Well, sure. But its not like I eat it everyday. I mean, I would, but I don’t.”

“Bacon?”

“You don’t like bacon? A nice crisp, salty piece of bacon?”

“Sure I like it. I mean I remember liking it. But its so bad for you. And, I mean, I thought girls didn’t eat that stuff.”

“What stuff, bacon?”

“Yeah. Bacon, steak, you know... meat.”

“What?!” Mai had snorted coffee out her nose at the very idea of women not eating meat. Sure, she knew that there were some women who didn’t eat meat. There were some men who didn’t eat meat, for that matter. But all women? Where was he getting this information about women? “All of my friends eat meat,” Mai replied. “All of my friends love bacon. Well, except two, but they’ve never had it. Religious reasons. I am sure if they’d tried it they would love it too.”

“I’ve never dated a girl before who liked bacon.”

“Are you sure?” Mai questioned, the fact that he kept referring to her and all women as “girls” was, Mai thought, a conversation for another day. Mai was quickly nearing 30 and as her mother would have gladly pointed out, was no longer a spring chicken. Mai figured if you couldn’t be considered a spring chicken you, likely, could also not be considered a girl.

“Of course I’m sure.” He was getting defensive.

“I mean maybe they never ate it in front of you. Or maybe they told you they didn’t like it,” Mai drew out the word “told” to imply that his not knowing may not be his fault. He heard, ‘maybe they didn’t trust you or like you enough to be honest with you about whether or not they liked bacon’ and thus ‘maybe you are inherently flawed and bad with women’.

This relationship had fallen apart shortly after the bacon conversation.

Bacon, Mai smiled as she hopped lightly from foot to foot in her kitchen. She rubbed her stomach for good measure, as though she were trying to convince a child present that something good was about to be offered.

By the time Mai had prepared herself six strips of bacon and a large mug of milky coffee her computer had grown impatient and gone to sleep.

“And what do we have here?” Mai stated aloud, wiping her bacon greased fingers on a dish towel. There was an email from a dating web site she had recently joined.

“You have a message!” it declared joyfully.

“A message. Hm” she said to herself. Mai had become a member of three dating web sites over the last six months. Her biological clock was ticking, her mother was pushing, and her romantically available social pool was drying up. She had been asked out by a sixty year old. Enough was enough.

The web sites had proven less then God sent, but she was reluctant to give up quite yet. Plus, her membership contracts didn’t run out for another three months.

“Hi!” opened the message “My name is Brian. I am thirty nine, healthy, and laid back. I am going to be in your area for work this coming week and was wondering if you were available for a hook up. ; ) No strings attached. You wont regret it.” Mai paused before hitting the delete button. The winking smily face was what got her. It is one thing to ask a complete stranger to have sex with you over the internet, but the smily face made it seem weak and torrid. She thought he was wrong, that she would regret the hook up, and to her the smily face said he knew that too.

After reading threw the rest of her emails, two from human rights mailing list, one from her sister, one from a friend from college - “I’M PREGNANT!!!!”, Mai stretched her arms over her head and washed her dishes.

“Everybody is kung fu fightin’...” she sang, “everybody’s fast as lightin’ duh duh duh du du du duh duh duhhhh.” Mai threw in a good side kick and a butt shimmy as she scrubbed the frying pan. “Oh it was a little bit frightnin’... uh hu, everybody was kung fu fightin’.”

Mai’s mobile rang part way through a deep kick turned lunge move.

“Mai!” her mother’s voice greeted her. Her mom always sounded so excited when she picked up the phone, as though they hadn’t spoken in a long time. They spoke almost daily.

“Hey mom, dun dun duhhhh.”

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing. Sorry. What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just calling to check in.”

“Uh hu.”

“What are you up to today? Are you busy?”

“Not really. I’ve got some laundry I should do,” Mai glanced over at the mountain of clothing, towels, and bedding that would likely amount to five loads even if she didn’t properly sort them, “and some stuff to do for work.”

“But its Saturday!” her mom objected.

“Yeah, Mom, I know. But stuff’s still got to get done.”

“I’m just saying a little fun would be good for you. You should go out. See people. Meet people. What is Macy doing today?” Macy was a good friend of Mai’s from high school. They were facebook friends and occasionally got coffee.

“No idea mom. She has kids, she’s probably doing some mom things today.”

“You should call her.”

“Uh hu,” Mai responded, while sorting through her underwear drawer for something clean and not depressingly un-sexy.

“The Christmas parade is today, you should go to that. She could bring her kids!”

“Mom, how do you know about the parade? You don’t even live in the state,”

“I have the internet. I like to know about things where you live.”

“Uh hu,” Mai nodded trying not to be annoyed. Did other people’s mother’s do this? One time when Mai’s old flat had been broken into, her mother had written a letter to the mayor complaining about his lax stance on crime. She was furious when she did not receive a reply. “Yeah Mom, maybe I’ll go. Probably not with Macy though.”

“I don’t understand, you two were so close.”

“Yeah mom, we were. Like fifteen years ago.”

“Whatever you want. Its your life. I know, I know.” But she didn’t know, of course.

Mai thought it might be nice to go to the parade. There would be the carnival and the stands. People would sell crafts and salty snacks and hot chocolate. Maybe she would go.

And, of course, she did. Wearing her least appalling pair of panties and her favorite, only slightly dirty sweater, Mai found herself at the Christmas parade, holding a cup of hot chocolate. The girl had put whipped cream on it.

Maybe living alone was starting to get to her, Mai worried. There were so many people here. Too many people. Did she not like people? Mai thought with sudden concern. She use to like people, didn’t she? A large man in a torn football jacket bumped into her, almost spilling her cocoa. Maybe not.

Some glitter had landed on the lid of her cup. “I saw Mama kissing Santa Claus...” sang a loud speaker nearby.

Yeah, thought Mai, who hasn’t. She decided to go home. She had a book to finish. And really, that laundry wasn’t going to do itself.

By Proxy

Moira was the replacement child. She feared the immaculate conception, sharks, baptism by proxy, and Fluff. The very idea of a Fluffer Nutter made her soul quake. She loved scones, high heels, and British comedies. Today, Wednesday, Moira was wearing four inch heels and a fitted gray pencil skirt. She’d had an interview that morning, it had not gone terribly well, and a date scheduled for late afternoon. Moira liked to plan late afternoon dates or ‘after work’ dates, as she liked to call them even though she wasn’t working, because they were more low pressure affairs and they got her home in time to watch her favorite shows. Tonight was Criminal Minds and her lovely ‘husband’ Matthew Gray Gubler. Mrs. Moira Gubler, Moira would mumble to herself as she settles into her armchair, hot tea in hand, she could get used to the name.

Moira trudged along the city street under the low gray sky, in her fitted pencil skirt, to her favorite cafe. The people around her were wrapped up in gray and brown scarves, gray and brown trench and puff coats, and gray and brown blankets, or so it appeared. This pulled the heaviness of the sky down to the sidewalk so that Moria, too, felt wrapped in gray and brown. Oh, great its Wednesday, Moira thought, not at all enthusiastically, as she pushed open the door. She had momentarily forgotten it was Wednesday.

Wednesdays meant Betty’s was crammed full of losers who did not want to pay full price for a scone. Moira was a full week regular and resented the intrusion. Half pricers hogged the seats, ate all the scones, and did not even have the decency to tip the workers. Moira swore that the scones were smaller on Wednesdays. They weren’t.

“Hey Kelly,” Moira greeted the lanky blonde behind the counter.

“Hey Moira. You look nice. Did you have an interview or something?”

“Yeah. Over at this architecture firm downtown.”

“How’d it go?”

Moira pulled a face.

“Well maybe it was better than you think. You don’t know how everyone else did.”

“Thanks.” Moira really did appreciate Kelly’s attempt at optimism, but she was getting a little tired of having to be appreciative. “Any new scones today?”

“We have a sour cherry. Its pretty good.”

“Great. I’ll have one and a non fat lattee, please.” Moira stuck two dollars in the tip jar while Kelly was steaming milk. She believed in over tipping, even when unemployed. She thought it was both good form and good karma.

“Here you go,” Kelly chirped, handing over the thick porcelain dishware. Moira loved that Betty’s had cups and saucers for their lattes and solid plates for their baked goods. It was one of the reasons she stuck to Betty’s. Moira was a sucker for a good plate.

“Have you seen Leo yet today?” Moira asked before turning away.

“Yeah, he was in this morning, but got all huffy cause Will was sitting at his table. He’ll probably be by later.”

“Is Will one of the Half Pricers?”

“Definitely,” Kelly laughed.

Leo was this old guy who came to Betty’s everyday. He would shuffle in wearing baggy corduroys and All Star high tops, order black coffee and a chocolate chip cookie (never a scone) and play checkers at the table by the window. The one with the chess board painted on the top. He would sometimes play for hours. Kelly, or one of the other girls, would occasionally pass by and sneak him a second cookie.

Leo was a fierce checkers player. A raze the buildings, salt the earth, take no prisoners kind of checkers player. He would laugh when he beat you. The more fully he trounced you the harder and louder he would laugh. Moira respected his enthusiasm.

She settled into Leo’s table, stuck a to go coffee sleeve under one leg to stop the wobble and took out her planner to jot down notes from the interview. Moira liked to review. She was not an architect. The job was an assistant position to the head of the firm. Emails, phone calls, dinner reservations. Moira had a Masters degree in late Tsarist Russian poetry.

The ‘stay at homers’ were out in full force today. They were not a Wednesday only group at Betty’s, but there did seem to be a few more of them today. They had circled up the buggies and taken up nearly every table. They seemed an impenetrable force to Moira. Career women who had given up their careers for late in life children. Both genetic and adopted.

“Now ladies” projected a woman in a well tailored shirt, “we are here today to learn about the available resources for nurturing our babies’ heritage.”

“Its a support group,” Kelly said, pulling the full garbage bag out of the trash bin.

Moira jumped slightly, caught unawares by Kelly’s nearness “What?”

“The women you’re starring at. They’re a support group for moms who adopted out of China. They usually come on Thursdays, but they had to reschedule.”

“Oh,” Moira paused.

“I think its kind of cool,” Kelly continued, pulling a tray of dirty dishes off the shelf, “You know, they learn about Chinese culture, food, history; that kind of stuff. Plus, apparently, there are classes on the language and play dates and stuff.”

“Huh. Which Chinese culture?”

“Um. Is there more than one?”

“I think so.”

“Probably the normal one. Anyway, I think its cool that they’re keeping the kids connected, you know.” Kelly starred at Moira, awaiting a reply.

“Um, yeah. It’s great” Moira responded in her best interviewee voice with matching smile after slightly too long of a pause. Really she was thinking, wow Kelly says “you know” a lot, is it meant to be a question?

Moira remembered a case a few years ago about a European couple sending a girl they had adopted back after seven or eight years. She remembered the couple lived in Hong Kong, but she couldn’t remember where the girl was from, or where they were sending her. Apparently, she wasn’t what they had wanted after all. Moria decided not to share this story with Kelly, it seemed inappropriate for the moment.

Moira looked down at her patterned tights. Perhaps this was where she had gone wrong. She thought the tights added a bit of personality and artistry to her otherwise professional outfit. The office had been sleek and gray in a sleek glass building. There were no plants, no posters, no pieces of framed art on the walls. No colors outside of the spectrum of shades of gray. The woman from human resources had been wearing a slightly too tight and boxy gray suit with a white blouse and what Moria suspected were shoulder pads. Moira had been surprised to see that women still wore collared white shirts to the office. Her carefully chosen wine blouse with a ruffle down the front suddenly seemed opulent and presumptive. Perhaps this is where she had gone wrong.

“So why do you want to work for Stewart, Murray, and Schmidt?”

“I respect the firm’s history of innovation in architecture and participation in the city’s urban renewal movement.” Moira had gotten that off of the web site.

Shoulder Pads nodded and wrote something down on her legal pad. “I see on your resume that you have no experience working in architecture.” She looked up at Moira. Moira looked back. It wasn’t a question.

“Um, no.”

Pause.

“Do you think any of your professional experiences are relevant to this position?”

“Well, I worked for two years in the offices of a university department as an assistant, and for over a year as the executive assistant to the Director of a nonprofit.”

“Yes.”

“... and while these were not in architecture firms, I believe that the experience in these office environments would transfer nicely to the needs of your firm. Both positions demanded the ability to multitask, interact with a variety of individuals, produce and monitor large and diverse amounts of correspondence.”

Pause.

“I kept the calendar for the Director at my last job.”

Pause.

“I type 85 words per minute.”

“Yes, I see that. It also says that this job was for Women Against the Bomb.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Can you tell me what that is?”

“Women Against the Bomb, is an pacifist women’s organization that fights against both nuclear weaponry and military action and expansion.”

“So how does this relate to architecture?”

“Well, of course the work of that organization does not directly relate to the work of your firm, but my experience working for and assisting the Director of that organization has, I believe, well prepared me to assist the head of your firm. I believe that many of the tasks and demands would be the same.”

“I also see that this position was over two years ago.”

“Well, yes.”

“What have you been doing for the last two years?”

“Ummm, well until about four months ago I was a teaching assistant.”

“A teaching assistant?”

“Yes.”

“That is not on your resume,” Shoulder Pads accused, turning over the single piece of paper as though Moira might have hidden this piece of information on the other side of the page.

“No. I didn’t really think it was relevant work experience for this position.”

“Where were you a teaching assistant?”

“NYU.”

“What?”

“NYU.”

“You were a teaching assistant at NYU?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“In the Russian literature department....”

“I’m sorry, but I see that you have a BA here from Wellesley, but how does that qualify you to be a teaching assistant at NYU?”

“It doesn’t.”

Pause.

“I also have a Masters. In Russian literature. From NYU.”

“You have a Masters Degree?” again Shoulder Pads turned over Moira’s resume. “So you speak Russian?”

“Yes. That actually is on my resume.”

“I don’t see it.”

“At the bottom, where it says “Skills” I wrote that I speak, read, and write Russian, Serbian and French.”

“But your Masters degree...?”

“Oh, yeah. Um, I didn’t think that was relevant.” Of course, Moira had purposefully taken her degree off. After four months of futile job searches and disheartening interviews, all ending with “why do you want this job?”, Moira had deleted her degree at the recommendation of a friend who had stumbled into recruiting.

“You speak three foreign languages?”

“Yes.”

“But not Spanish?”

“No,” Moira almost sighed. “No, I do not speak Spanish.” No one really cared how many languages Moira spoke, they only cared that she did not speak Spanish.

“We really would prefer someone who speaks Spanish.”

“Yes of course, Spanish is a very useful, and lovely language, but Russian is a useful language as well.”

“Really? Have you found it useful?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“Well, there are quite a few Russian and Eastern European immigrants in the US now a days.”

Pause.

“And with the expansion of the EU more former Soviet nations are joining the Union, potentially becoming more active in the global economy.”

“And how would that affect the firm?”

“Well, I understand that your firm is looking to expand their international design division. As assistant to the head of the firm, I would need to speak and correspond with a growing variety of people from a growing variety of nations... Russian... and French and Serbian could be extremely usefully in ... facilitating communications... and... increasing the appearance that the firm is an international firm.”

“The firm is international.”

“Yes, of course.”

Pause.

“So do you find Serbian is useful?”

There was a woman leaning against Betty’s window talking on her mobile. She was fighting with her boyfriend. It was unclear what exactly the man had done wrong, but it had been unforgivable and disrespectful. Evidently.

Leo shuffled over to the table.

“Morning,” Leo said, in spite of the fact that it was half past three, placing his coffee mug down on the table and yanking his box of checkers pieces out of his briefcase before settling down into the chair across from Moira.

“Hey, Leo. How goes it?”

“Well, well. Can’t complain. You are red.”

Moira nodded. And so it began. There was no conversation for the next thirty minutes as Leo destroyed Moria.

“You aren’t trying,” Leo charged.

“Not a good day, Leo.”

“No reason not to try. A bad day is all the more reason to try. Winning makes the day better.”

“I was never going to bet you.”

“Well, of course you weren’t. That is not the point.”

Kelly slid another cookie onto Leo’s plate. She left the piece of wax paper on top. Leo took it off, examined it, and folded the paper carefully before sticking it into his jacket pocket.

“Your shoes are ridiculous. You are red again. But you have to try this time or you have to move. I’d rather play alone if you aren’t going to try.”

Moira sighed, hunching her shoulders, preparing to try. “Why are my shoes ridiculous?”

“The heels are too high.”

“I like them high. They make my legs look longer.”

“Make your ass look good too, but they aren’t practical. You’re too smart to be running around in those things?”

“What do my heels have to do with my intelligence?”

“Can you run in those things?”

“No. My heels have nothing to do with my intelligence.”

Leo scratched his chin.

“Why’d you shave your beard, Leo?”

Leo smiled. Menacingly. Chuckled a bit and moved his piece across the board.

“Your beard?”

“I decided I need a change.”

“I liked the beard. I think you looked distinguished.”

“Yes yes, well. You know sometimes a change is nice.”

Leo thoroughly beat Moria a second time and then hastened her away in disgust.

“Fine,” Moira threw over her shoulder as she shoved her planner back into her large purse, “I have a date anyway.”

“Come back Friday when you are more focused,” Leo shouted at her.

The two remaining Stay at Homers glanced askant at Moira as she pulled open the front door. The little bell tinkled. The women were gossiping about their husbands. One was cheating with his new high heel wearing secretary.

Out on the sidewalk once again, Moira noticed that the wind had picked up. She was regretting her choice of tights over pants. She thought the skirt would be more impressive at the interview, would make her feel more authoritative. It clearly had not worked. And really, authoritative was not what they wanted anyway. A plastic bag, caught in the wind, wrapped around Moira’s right ankle, tripping her.

“Shit,” she exclaimed under her breath as she reached out for something to catch her. Her hand grasped the lapel of a gray tweed coat.

“Hey,” cried the man inside the coat.

“Sorry, sorry, crap” Moira muttered looking up and tripping again. Maybe Leo was right and these shoes were stupid. But they were so cute. The man had grasped Moira’s elbow to steady her.

“You okay there?” he asked, ducking his head slightly in an attempt to make eye contact.

“Yeah, I’m fine. This stupid bag tripped me” Moira explained, trying to shake the bag off her foot. She didn’t want to touch the thing anymore than need be. She didn’t know where it had been.

The man in the gray tweed coat reached down and removed the bag. He balled it up and threw in into the trash bin on the other side of Moira, leaning in a little close. “I hate litters, don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Moira, scanned the gray tweed coated man. Tall, dark, and handsome, if a little soft around the middle.

He smiled at her, partly because she was attractive, if a little frazzled at the moment, and partly because her scan was not at all subtle. “Aaron,” he stated, releasing her elbow and sticking out his hand.

“Moira,” she responded sticking out her hand in return.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“A date, actually.”

“Really?” he sounded a little disappointed.

“A first date.”

“Lucky guy.”

“Don’t worry it wont go well. Today is not a good day for a first date.”

“Do you think Friday will be a better day?” asked Aaron, a little hesitantly.

“I think it might,” Moira bit her bottom lip and glanced at her heels and patterned tights. Leo was wrong.

The low clouds started to rain.

“Fucking rain,” some guy muttered as he passed.

The Wasted Heart

She stood at the bus stop eating her heart. Crunching at the hardened bits, like an apple or an un-ripened pear. “I need to see something beautiful!” she cried, or would have cried if she were able. If she were not too far gone. She stood in the graying light of the early evening, of a coming storm, awaiting a bus. A return to a house where a body lived, taking up space. She needed to learn to be smaller. She needed to add this to her list: wash the dishes, take out the trash, never leave your shoes out, don’t use sarcasm - its not funny, don’t eat sweets, buy nonfat milk not 2 percent, be smaller. Be small. She nibbled at the core as a hooded teenager looked on. She hated waste. A perfectly good heart. Wasted. Wasted away.

Extra Rooms

The eight ball refused to go in the pocket, any pocket.

“Eight ball in the middle pocket,” said the guy with dreads. You could tell by his voice that he didn’t believe it would work.

The t.v. was telling a story about an old man who reported his wife missing. A week later she was found dead in their home. She had been buried under a tower of Elmer’s glue bottles, which had collapsed. Apparently, the man had not entered that room in years.

There seemed to be a never ending stream of weird old people death stories. Recently, in Japan, the government discovered that the oldest man in the world had been dead for thirty years. He was mummified in his bed at home. The family claimed that they never went into the room. Of course, the media told the story with an emphasis on the family’s years of fraud, but it is a pretty weird death story too. When people say ‘I want to die in bed, at an old age, surrounded by my family,’ they don’t usually imagine that they will then be left in that bed for the next thirty years until they suffer the indignity of being removed by government officials.

The bartender leered at the waitress while he poured two pints for the guys at the pool table. The waitress glared at the bartender in return. The eight ball went in the corner pocket.

Ernie didn’t begrudge Arthur the win. They had only had five bucks on the game, and really it was just something to do, to kill time. It was snowing outside tonight. Not hard, just a dusting really, but it was freezing fast and he knew that he’d be walking home on a crust of ice. Maybe he would take the bus, but he didn’t live very far. It seemed frivolous, weak even, to take the bus when he could walk it. As a kid Ernie had loved Jack London’s stories about the Yukon. He liked the idea of killing bears, fighting crazed miners, and defeating the cold. ‘I am stronger than you,’ Ernie thought as he stared out at the snow, shivering.

Arthur was talking to his mistress on the phone. Ernie didn’t really like Arthur’s wife that much, but she was a nice lady, and he felt bad for her. He sent a text to Mishka while he took a swig of his beer. Arthur’s conversation wouldn’t take long, it never did. Ernie briefly wondered how much his friend really liked the mistress.

Mishka was calling.

“Hey,” he answered.

“What’re you doing?”

“Playing pool.”

“With Arthur?”

“uhu.”

“Am I bothering you?”

“Nah, he’s talking to his mistress.”

“Why do you call her that?”

“What?”

“Hannah. Why do you call her his mistress?”

Ernie didn’t answer.

“They’re not sleeping together.”

“I know,” he responded.

There was a long pause. Each thought they had made their point and was waiting for the other to agree.

“So, are you coming over tonight?” she asked.

Ernie thought about it. “Its snowing.”

“So, maybe tomorrow than?”

“Yeah, call me tomorrow.”

Mishka hung up the phone and took the clear plastic off the microwave popcorn sack. Sometimes she hated Ernie. Well, she didn’t hate him exactly, she loved him. But, she thought he was lazy and he didn’t love her back.

When the microwave beeped she took the bag into the living room and dropped down onto the couch. She turned on Comedy Central, if she couldn’t have sex at least she could laugh with Stephen Colbert, she thought. “Oh, Stephen,” Mishka sighed as she opened the popcorn bag, inhaling the fake buttery steam.

Mishka was named after a cat. Mishka, the cat, had been a gray Persian belonging to, the person, Mishka’s mother for eight years. The cat died of obesity related illnesses two months before Mishka’s birth. Her parents thought that keeping the name alive was a fitting memorial. Mishka was a dog person.

“Hey sweetie,” Mishka’s roommate, Sonja, said kissing the top of Mishka’s head as she passed the couch.

“Hey”

“What are you up to tonight?”

“I’m thinking about eating my weight in popcorn and then drawing pictures of the babies Stephen and I will someday make,” she responded, gesturing at the television.

“What happened to Nathan?”

“I’ve moved on. He is too good looking. I don’t need that kind of pressure.” Mishka had recently transferred her fictitious undying love from Nathan Fillion to Stephen Colbert. “You doing anything fun tonight?”

“I’m getting pizza with Jack.”

“Fun,” Mishka replied with enthusiasm. Sonja pulled a face. “Not fun?”

Sonja shook her head and collapsed next to Mishka, shoving a handful of popcorn in her mouth.

“He’s nice. Really, he is nice...”

“But...” Mishka prompted.

“But, he smells weird.”

“He does not!” Mishka exclaimed horrified.

“He does,” Sonja whined, half laughing, “its like octopus and cleaning supplies.”

“I don’t really know what that smells like.”

“Anyway, he is a republican, and he has unusually long nose hairs.”

“He does have really long nose hairs,” Mishka agreed.

Jack and Sonja had been dating for a couple of months. Their break up was inevitable from the start.

“So where’s Ernie tonight?”

“Playing pool.”

“With Arthur?”

“Yup.”

“Is he coming over later?” Sonja questioned.

“Nope,” Mishka responded, popping a kernel into her mouth, feigning indifference.

“Dipshit,” Sonja stated under her breath.

“Well, have fun tonight,” Mishka responded with a huge smile pasted onto her face.

“Yeah,” Sonja said returning the smile, “you too.”

“Oh,” Mishka called after her friend, “its snowing.”

“Damn it.”

Ernie decided to take the bus over to the mistress’ place with Arthur. She was having some friends over and had invited Arthur. Arthur didn’t want to go alone. No, he did want to go alone, but thought it was better if he brought Ernie, so later when his wife asked him where he was he could say that he was out with Ernie and he wouldn’t be lying. Arthur hated lying. The bus was running slow because of the snow. The windows were fogged over and there was a damp, hot, smell coming off everyone. The floor was gray and wet. Ernie noticed that there was an especially large puddle around the feet of this large woman with one of those wire push carts. He moved away.

“So who’s going to be there?” he asked Arthur.

“I don’t know. People.”

“Right, but, like her people? Or our people?” Ernie asked, drawing out the words “her” and “our”, so that he wouldn’t have to explain what he was asking.

“What are you asking?”

“I just mean, well, she has a certain kind of friend. A kind of friend that is not like us.”

“Females?”

“What? NO.” Ernie sputtered, shaking his head at his friend.

“Females aren’t like us. We aren’t them,” Arthur answered nonchalantly.

“Right. That’s not what I mean. I mean. Her friends are. Well, they are kind of intense.”

“Mishka is her friend.”

“Sort of. But Mishka is like us. You know?”

“Right. Not intense.” Now Ernie just thought that Arthur was fucking with him. “Do you not like her?” Arthur asked.

“Its not that I don’t like her. I like her. Its just that her friends are kind of...”

“Intense.”

“Yeah. And, I mean, its just awkward. You know, for me.”

“Being around intense females.”

“What? no, shut up. You know why.”

“Yeah. I know,” Arthur said quietly, looking at this hot teen at the back of the bus.

Mishka had finished three episodes of The Colbert Report thanks to ON DEMAND, when her phone rang.

“Mishka?”

“Speaking.”

“Hey it’s Hannah.”

“Hey sweetie, what’s going on?”

“I am having some people over tonight and you have to come.”

Mishka hesitated. “I don’t know babe, I’m kind of busy tonight,” she claimed, digging out a kernel of popcorn that had fallen into her bra.

“Mishka, get off the couch and get over here. We are tangoing tonight.”

“You’re tangling?”

“TANGOING. The Argentine. We are channeling the ‘30s. Its great, the lights are low, the air is smoky, everyone is wearing dresses or suits.”

“That sounds great Hannah, but...”

“There is liquor,” Hannah interrupted. “And Ernie is coming.”

“Ernie’s coming?”

“Yeah Arthur’s bringing him. I just got off the phone with him. They’re on their way over.”

“Yeah, okay. So I have to wear a dress?”

“Or a suit, its up to you really.”

Mishka dragged herself off the couch, shaking renegade popcorn out of her sweater. Hannah lived with a group of friends in a stack of flats. There were six people and three flats, the friends sort of floated between them claiming space when they needed it. Hannah’s home base tended to be the top floor, which also, not coincidentally, was where the parties tended to happen. They liked to throw elaborate theme parties. The kind of parties that Mishka would never throw, but was always happy she went to after the fact when she saw herself in the photos.

She pulled a black dress and heels out of her closet. She had mixed feelings about seeing Ernie at Hannah’s tonight. She loved the idea of dancing the tango with him in a smoky room, or really just the idea of seeing Ernie doing the tango at all, but she thought it might make her look pathetic going to the party after he had blown her off. Would it look like she was going there just to see him?

Hannah’s place was a fifth floor walk up. The stairwell was littered with costumed people tonight, smoking cigarettes and leaning against walls. Ernie and Arthur had to maneuver their way past at least three heavily intimate couplings. The place was dark and all the furniture had been removed or pushed up against the walls to create a dance floor. There were a ton of people. Ernie thought it was too warm.

“Arthur, you came,” Hannah said throwing her arms around his neck. “And Ernie, always lovely to see you,” she breathed, kissing his cheek. “There are drinks in the kitchen, a ton so don’t be shy, really there is enough for everyone to get totally pissed, so please please drink yourselves stupid, and food is on the tables by the windows in case you get nibbly.”

“What’s the theme?” Ernie asked.

“Oh I thought it was obvious,” she cried “Buenos Aires, 1930s, the tango” she chortled “tango” as though with a fake Spanish accent and ran off.

The guys moved around the edge of the room. “So, are you gonna dance?” asked Arthur.

“I don’t really know how to,” Ernie answered, staring at the moving mass of couples.

“I don’t think you need to,” Arthur said, though he noticed that some of the couples seemed to really know what they were doing. There was one sort of near the middle of the group who were glued together, moving like they were born attached somehow. Suddenly the woman’s leg kicked at a strange angle, and they switched directions. Arthur nodded over at them.

“Yeah. Damn.”

A young thing in a tight red dress came over a grabbed Arthur’s hand. “Dancing?” she asked as she moved him toward the floor.

“I guess I am,” he said to Ernie.

Ernie noticed Mishka come in. Hannah leaped at her with a drink in hand and dragged her over to a couch.

“Have you ever thought about polygamy?” Hannah asked.

“Like the Mormons?”

“Mhm. Or other people,” Hannah paused, looking at Arthur across the room. He’d removed himself from the red dress. “I read this article the other day,” she continued, still watching Arthur intently, “about this people, somewhere in Africa, I don’t remember where, it said, you know. The article...” Hannah looked at Mishka, as though for confirmation. “It said that the men, they build separate little rooms or houses for each wife. In one big compound. Each wife has her own space.”

Mishka looked at Hannah’s face. She looked so young. She couldn’t stop herself from taking Hannah’s hands into her own. “But isn’t polygamy, in Utah, or Africa, or wherever, isn’t it about men wanting a lot of kids and power? Isn’t it about men?”

Hannah looked down at their hands. She didn’t move them or say anything for a minute. “Yeah. Maybe. Maybe that’s okay. If we get what we want and they get what they want... maybe its okay if its about them. Or if it looks like its about them.”

The two women sat, watching the couples dance and recouple, watching Ernie and Arthur pick through the chip bowl.

“They say,” Hannah said after awhile, “on the internet, in what I read,” she hesitated, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It says, the men are supposed to treat each wife equally.”

“Equally?” Mishka questioned.

Hannah nodded. “Uhu. Do you think that’s possible?”

“Equally how?”

“I don’t know. With money, housing, and time maybe?”

“That doesn’t make them equal,” Mishka said. Hannah looked at her quizzically. “The wives. Having the same amount of money. The same houses. It doesn’t make them equal. They are all different, right? He loves them differently, for different reasons. Its never the same... never equal.”

“They’re staring at us again,” Arthur said shoving a potato chip in his mouth. “What do you think they’re talking about?” Ernie laughed and grabbed an extra beer. “Us?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, us... or you, but probably us.”

“What do you think they’re saying? She looks upset.”

She did, thought Ernie, so did Mishka. She looked sad. “Maybe we should go over there,” Ernie said, turning to his friend.

“Maybe we should stay here,” Arthur responded. “If they’re upset, maybe we should just leave them alone.” Arthur was stressed, Ernie realized, not just about being here. He looked tired.

“I’m gonna give Mishka a beer,” Ernie said, looking at Arthur.

“Yeah, okay. I’m just gonna go out for a smoke.”

“Its snowing.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Where’s Arthur?” Hannah asked as Ernie sat down on the chair next to Mishka.

“He went out for a smoke,” Ernie replied.

“I think he’s tired,” Hannah said. “I’m going to make a round, make sure everything’s okay,” she said to Mishka, standing and pulling her hand away.

“Hannah...” Mishka began.

“Yeah, we’ll talk later,” Hannah said rubbing her hands down her thighs, smoothing out her skirt. “Good to see you Ernie,” she said in her hostess voice.

Ernie moved onto the couch next to Mishka. “Here” he said handing her the beer.

“Thanks,” she said, leaning back into his body. She rested her head on his shoulder. Ernie noticed that she closed her eyes when she took a drink.

“Long day?” he asked, scratching her head.

“Not too bad.”

“Long conversation?”

She laughed quietly and rubbed her nose into his armpit. She always did that when she was tired. Ernie didn’t know why, but he liked it.

“I always wanted a train set when I was a kid,” she said lowly after a minute. “Did I ever tell you that?”

“No. Did you get one?”

“No. Trains were for boys. They bought me a doll house instead. It was a really nice doll house, lace curtains, claw foot bath.”

“I had a train,” Ernie stated, resting his chin briefly on Mishka’s head. She’d changed her shampoo. It was probably Sonja’s, but she still smelled good, like herself. “I think my mom got rid of it when I moved out.”

“My mom still has that doll house.”