Chapter 4 "A Little Sugar In My Bowl" (excerpt)

“So, Ms. Lockhart.”

“Mr. Chaplin."

“Where have you been keeping yourself?”

I smile. “Oh, out of trouble, mostly.”

“Ha, ha. I don’t believe that for a minute.”

“How about you?” I ask. “Where have you been for the past two years?”

Mark doesn’t flinch. “Oh, I’ve been busy with my stuff, you know. No rest for the wicked and the self-employed.”

The waitress returns with our beers. “Are we ready to order?” she asks, looking bored.

Mark flips open the menu. "Well, we'll need something vegetarian-friendly. How about the Quattro?" He looks at me. "Cool?"

"Fine."

"And let's add pineapple and green peppers to that."

He remembers what I like on my pizza. After two years. Maybe there's hope after all.

“That’ll be extra,” the waitress says.

“Not a problem,” Mark assures her, and she collects our menus and disappears.

He raises his beer in a salute. “Here’s to a beautiful evening.”

We clink bottles. Stay calm, you can do this.

He takes a swig of beer and sets the bottle down firmly. "You're absolutely breath-taking," he says, raking his eyes over my face and chest.

“Thank you." It’s amazing how well this shit works when it’s coming from Mark. “You look nice, too.” He does. He's wearing a silky, silvery gray shirt and matching tie. “I feel underdressed.”

Mark shakes his head. “No, no-you’re perfect.”

I’m wearing a fitted berry-colored top and black pants. I didn’t have time to go home and put on something more appealing, but I did fix my makeup before I left work and found a tube of shimmery, fuck-me lip gloss in the bottom of my purse.

“Soooo,” Mark drawls in his Lake Woebegon accent. “What made you decide to come out with me tonight?”

“Hmm,” I say, trying to buy some time while I bite back the truth. Because I was so ecstatic that you asked me, I couldn’t say no. Because I’d like to have sex with you again. And I want to see if there’s a chance that we’ll have a relationship this time, because I haven’t stopped thinking about you in two years. “I thought it would be fun to catch up."

He clasps his hands together, looking pleased. "Me too."

"So. Do you still have that little place on Washington?"

"No, I bought a house last year over on 46th and Primrose. It's a fixer upper, but
it's coming along."

"Cool."

"How are things at the Art Guild?"

I shrug lightly. "Same old, same old. You stopped doing chair massages there, huh?"

"Yeah, I got too busy setting up the new office. I'm there full-time now."

"I'll have to book an appointment."

The pizza arrives, and it's the best thing I’ve eaten in months. The tomato sauce is sweet, the cheese dense, and the pineapples and peppers crisp and juicy. I quickly scarf down my half of the pie and put away the next beer that Mark orders for me. I lean back in my chair, suppress a burp, and sigh.

“You made short work of that,” Mark says. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and glances at his watch. “Shit, 7:45. We’d better get going.” He pays the check, helps me with my coat, and we hurry out the door.

“I’m just down the block a little ways,” he says, grabbing my arm. I hold my breath against the icy wind as he leads me briskly down the sidewalk to where his beat-up Honda Prelude is parallel parked. He unlocks the passenger door and holds it open for me.

“Thanks,” I tell him, smiling at his chivalry. Our eyes meet, and I seize him by the lapels and tug his face down towards mine for an impulsive kiss. He tastes like pineapple and garlic.

When I release him he looks at me a moment, then moves in for another. He parts my lips with his tongue and I feel his hands clutching my shoulders.

When he lets go, I’m nearly panting.

“We’re going to be late,” he says.

We are late. By the time we make it to the Murat and are shown to our seats by a visibly annoyed usher, Act I is well under way.

We are seated six rows from the stage. The theatre is packed, and I am wedged between Mark and, on my right, a portly man who hogs the armrest. There is not enough room to comfortably remove my coat, so I sit and sweat. If Mark does get my clothes off tonight, I am afraid I will reek.

But halfway through the first act, Mark reaches over, peels my coat from my left shoulder, and begins massaging my neck with his fingertips. I remember now what it is about Mark. I can't put it into words, but it's something my body knows.

After the final curtain call, Mark turns to me, smiling thoughtfully as the house lights go up.

“Are you up for a drink?” he asks.

“Let’s go.”

It’s too frigid to walk, so we drive the few blocks to the Chatterbox, snagging a lucky parking space across the street. Mark orders us two glasses of Merlot at the bar, and we settle into a booth in the corner.

“So, how have you been?” he asks.

“Well, work is going well. I got a pretty decent raise at my last review."

“I didn’t ask about your job. How are you?” He takes a long drink of his wine, eyeing me intently.

“I’m doing well.”

“How’s your love life?”

“What would you like to know?”

“So, you really don't have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“That surprises me.”

“Why?”

“I figure they’d be banging down your door.”

“Not quite. I was dating a ballroom dance instructor for a while.”

“Really? How was that?”

“He was fun. It never really got serious. We dated about six months or so.”

“What happened?”

“He moved to Florida."

“Wow, that’s too bad.”

I shrug. “Not really.”

Mark ponders this for a moment, and I catch his eyes drifting down to my tits.
“So,” he drawls, cocking his head. “How long has it been?”

“Since?”

He doesn’t answer, he just sips his wine, a mischievous glint in his eye.

I lean back, folding my arms over my chest. “Since I got laid?” I haven’t swallowed enough wine yet to not be perturbed by that question. I almost tell him it’s none of his fucking business, but I don’t want to give impression that it’s been as long as it has.

“A month or two.” I tell him shortly. It’s actually been three. Paul was kind enough to give me a goodbye fuck the night before he toddled off to Miami.

“How long has it been for you?”

“A lot longer than a month or two," he says, grinning. I’m not sure I believe him, but the thought of Mark fucking someone else makes me slightly queasy, so I don’t challenge it.

“Is that why you asked me out?” I say. I can’t help it. My defenses have suddenly gone on high alert.

“Oh, Jordan, no.” he looks alarmed. “No. Not at all. Come on.” He frowns at me, turning the corners of his mouth down in a show of exaggerated disappointment.

“Well, that’s too bad,” I say. “I had high hopes for tonight.”

Mark’s wineglass freezes on the way to his lips. “Did you now?”

“Sure. Girls have needs too, you know.” I shift in my seat, suppressing a smile.

"Well," Mark says. "I wouldn't want you to think I'm that easy."

"Have you forgotten our first date?"

He smiles. "I remember it well. You ordered the mango chutney."

I roll my eyes. "No, that was just lunch. I'm talking about our first real date. At the Pawn Shop Pub?”

He rubs at his chin. "I remember what we did after dinner that night."

I smirk. "Yeah. My point exactly."

We sit and look at one another a moment. Under the table, my knees are bouncing up and down furiously.

“Would you like some more wine?” Mark asks.

“Sure, why not. Twist my arm.”

“I’ll save that for later.” He rises and slinks over to the bar, hands in his pockets.

I slump down in my chair, feeling like I need one of those big, fluttery eighteenth-century style fans I can waft in front of my face.

Mark returns with another glass of Merlot. I take out a cigarette and reach for my lighter, but look up to see that Mark has whipped out a pack of matches and is holding a lit one in his hand, waiting. I smile and lean forward to touch my cigarette to the flame.

“You’re good."

“Make a wish," he tells me.

I hesitate, then blow out the flame just before it singes his fingers.

“What did you wish for?” he says, leaning back in his seat. He is grinning broadly and starting to get that look--Iris calls it "the Merlot glow."

“Okay,” I tell him, deciding to lie. “I wished I would quit smoking. I wished that I would never ever want another smoke. Ever.” I look at the cigarette in my hand. “Starting now.” I take a deep drag, and exhale slowly. “And I want to quit wanting everything else that’s bad for me.”

Mark raises his eyebrows. “Nobody can be good all the time."

“Some people can,” I say. “I’m just not one of them.”

“Well, speaking of being bad,” Mark says, and I snap to attention. He is fingering my pack of cigarettes. “May I?”

I nod and he draws one out of the pack, fires it up and inhales deeply.

“Wow, that’s nice. I haven’t had a cigarette in about six months.”

“Six months?” I repeat. “So, is this just a little minor slip-up, or have you officially fallen off the wagon?”

“We’ll soon find out,” he says.

“I must be a bad influence."

“I must need a little influencing.”

I stare at Mark, and that’s when I know for sure. We’re going to fuck tonight.
I slip my purse over my shoulder.

“I’m going to run to the restroom.”

“Run fast.”

On the toilet, I sit staring up at the graffiti covering the restroom walls. The Chatterbox attracts an art school crowd and is famous for its weird bathroom graffiti.

I’ve accidentally glued myself to God’s yo-yo. This is written in big block letters on the wall opposite the john.

Unfortunately, we are not robots is scrawled above the toilet paper dispenser.

And in flowery script next to the mirror:
Schizophrenics build castles in the sky
Neurotics live in them
Therapists collect the rent
I live in the dump

I return to Mark, who is happily drumming his hands on the table to strains of Paul Simon’s “Late in the Evening” emerging from the jukebox. I slide into my seat and drain the rest of my glass.

He gives me a toothy grin. "So?"

“Yes?” I reply, pulling out my compact mirror and the fuck-me lip gloss. Instead of using the spongy applicator tip, I put a dab of the goo on my index finger run it slowly over my lips. It’s a little trick I’ve seen Genna do. I glance up at Mark nonchalantly. He’s watching my finger, mesmerized.

“Your lips look like candy.”

A little shiver goes up my spine. I am so charmed by Mark’s twisted, geeky innocence that I lean forward, cleavage on the table, and kiss him softly on the mouth.

“Thank you,” he says, when I pull back. Now he's wearing half my lip gloss. He reaches up to adjust his glasses. My heart aches a little.

I look at him, tilt my head, and give him the doe eyes.

"Would you like to come back to my place?” he says.

“That sounds nice.”

Mark looks at me like a child watching his first sunrise.

Excerpt from chapter four of the novel Thanks, That Was Fun by Andie Ryan. All rights reserved.