Going Solo
by Cheryl Snell
I notice the red shoes first. My eyes travel the length of the man in them. Lots of long grey hair, faded from the original blond, pulled back in a ponytail like mine. Pale blue eyes, haggard face but broad in the shoulders. Beautiful hands, long tapered fingers like a violinist. He’s talking into his phone about art and auctions, furiously writing in a notebook just like the one I use as a sketchbook. See, we already have lots in common.
I know I’m staring. My stare usually makes people uncomfortable, like I’m sizing them up for dinner, but this guy likes it. He quickly ends his telephone call, grins, and comes over to my table. He sits himself right down like he owns the coffee shop. “You’re the painter, right?”
“Yeah, I paint.”
“I saw your show the other day. Are you as mysterious as your work?”
“Me? I’m an open book,” I say with what I hope is a mysterious smile. I flip my ponytail for good measure. His pupils enlarge.
“I’d like to read that book.”
He’s already rising out of his chair and offering me his hand. This is one advantage of having reached a certain age. No cat-and-mouse games. We both know there’s no time to waste.
We drive to his apartment in separate cars. There’s no reason for me to mistrust him—after all, his intentions are clear—but I want to have an easy exit. I think of the close calls in my life, like the guy who followed me home across two cities, or the guy who wouldn’t back off until I sicced my German Shepherd on him. I notice that my car is nicer than old Red’s. With all that grey hair, shouldn’t he have a better one? Oh well, maybe he’s driving his coffee-shop car, and the Mercedes is in the garage.
He turns into an apartment complex that looks like subsidized housing. Two long tiers of the kind of space people rent when they’re waiting for something to happen in their lives, or else when they’ve just given up. How many of these apartments are simply storage facilities? Maybe there’s a studio or two tucked in with them for starving artists living off the grid. The campus reminds me of the place I shared with my only serious boyfriend, who was always trying to make me drop out of school and marry him. The last time he tried, I kicked him out before he had a chance to talk me into anything. I must love solitude because I engineered it for myself. Anyway, it doesn’t feel like loneliness to me.
Red eases out of his parked car and motions for me to take the space next to his. He does it with a stiff little bow and I laugh, cringing on the inside. He ushers me into his apartment still bowing and scraping. You know how homeowners in Britain like to name their houses? I’d name his place Cold Coffee or something. It’s bare, beyond austere, with only the essential pieces of secondhand furniture tossed like dice across the brown indoor-outdoor carpeting. “I’m in the middle of renovations,” he explains as he takes off my jacket, and then my sweater.
His lovemaking is as plain as the surroundings, except for some biting, which I don’t really like. At least he doesn’t complain about his creaky knees like other men his age do. He does, however, cry after we’re done. I try not to act repulsed, and simply say, “Been awhile, has it?” He acts like he doesn’t get what I mean, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows and all. Is he getting ready to tell me his life? Stories about his failed marriages, his disappointments? I bet he thinks he’s never at fault. “I can really pick ‘em,” I can almost hear him say. I don’t need another trauma bond, so I pull my clothes back on, and pull out my keys.
“Was it something I said?”
“What?”
“Where are you going?”
“Home. Aren’t we done here?”
“Methinks we have not yet begun. Not if we continue with our precedent of doing things backward; sex first, getting-to-know-you afterward. I’ll make tea.” He gets up, his withering muscles desperately clutching at the bone. His chest is covered with fine white hairs that make him look blurry and out of focus. I can tell he wants to tell me all his secrets.
“I’m not thirsty. What do you want to talk about anyways? I’m behind schedule.”
“Is this going to be like dating a teenager with a curfew? One way for a Humbert like me to stay young, I suppose.” His lips turn up, to let me know he’s being clever.
“You should be so lucky,” I snap. I take a last look around the place to make sure I haven’t left anything behind. I jangle my keys at him by way of saying goodbye.
I’m always amazed by how good leaving feels.
Cheryl Snell’s books include several poetry collections and the novels of her Bombay Trilogy. Her most recent writing has appeared in Does It Have Pockets?, Switch, Gone Lawn, Your Impossible Voice, Pure Slush, and other journals. Her work has also appeared in several anthologies including a Best of the Net. A classical pianist, she lives in Maryland.