Matt Cowper - The Clerk

“I second that. Well, technically I’m still living above my parents’ garage, but I’m pretty much by myself.” She said this a bit sheepishly, as most twenty-somethings do when they admit they’re living with their parents. “I think Cynthia’s thinking of moving out. Her parents know this, and it sounds like they want her to… well, upgrade herself if she does. You know, move away from this backwater, go to college, etcetera.”

“Damn. Talk about being supportive… they’re like hyenas going after the weakest member of the pack.”

“Yeah, pretty much — and nice analogy, by the way.”

“Thanks. I have the erudition.”

Ori smiled faintly. It was like a patch of moonlight poking briefly through the clouds. Thomas felt himself grinning cheekily.

“Another nice witticism, Mr. Copeland,” she said. “By the by, did I hear it was your birthday today?”

Nice segue, Thomas thought thankfully. It got them safely away from Cynthia’s problems.

“No, it was yesterday, actually,” Thomas replied.

“My fault. I must’ve misheard.” Another faint smile flickered onto her thin face. “You’re forty, I was told.”

“Yes, I am. And please don’t ask me if I’m going to have a midlife crisis.”

“Uh, OK?” she replied, momentarily puzzled. Then she figured out his meaning and shook her head. “Have a lot of people been asking you that?”

“Well, not a lot. A few.”

“Don’t worry about it. People have to say something, so it might as well be something that’s been said a billion times before.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Still — not very comforting to be asked.”

“Nah, I bet not.” She paused, then put on a different sort of grin. It wasn’t at all faint; it was full and toothy, with a large portion of mischief. “But if that question does make you uncomfortable…”

“Don’t even start.”

“…then maybe…”

“Quit it.”

“…you are having a midlife crisis. After all, a man of sound mind would let that question just roll off of him, wouldn’t he? So…”

But Thomas was back-peddling and holding up his hands.

“Nope, I’ve had enough. Nice chatting with you.”

“That’s right, run from your problems,” she said, laughing. The laugh was thick, with each “hah” being laughed separately, but it was still somehow endearing — mainly, Thomas supposed, because it was so rare to hear her laugh.

At the other register, Peggy had been watching this exchange. She was an older woman, but she had none of Maureen’s indiscriminate goodwill. She was censorious and frigid: from her tall frame, she sent her gaze sweeping through the store like a lighthouse-beam. Thomas caught her eye as he retreated, and he knew that this little episode would enter into the dispatches of gossip she delivered to the lady-friends she went to church with: “Outrageous flirtation, and him seventeen years older than her! Why, if that isn’t robbing the cradle, I don’t know what is.” Thomas frowned at her. Why was she up here, anyway? There were few customers, so she should’ve been doing something else, like cleaning some shelves or sweeping the front porch. Peggy didn’t flinch under Thomas’s frown, not one bit, and her return frown could’ve withered a small section of rainforest. Thomas looked back to Ori, hoping her smile would counteract Peggy’s frown, but Ori had a customer, and she was ringing up unsalted peanuts and lemon pepper spice.

It had been an eventful day by Oxendine’s winter season standards. Thomas didn’t know what had been more interesting: the travails of normally-sunny Cynthia or the cool warmth of Orianna.

Thinking about these two women inevitably led him to consider another woman in his life. As he stood on the boardwalk in the evening, watching the stars twinkle, he thought about Kara, his friend-with-benefits.

Actually, even friend-with-benefits was a misnomer. They now saw each other so rarely that they were barely acquaintances-with-benefits. Thomas counted off days: thirteen… no, fourteen days since they’d last seen each other. As usual, Kara had been sullen and malleable. She was like a large electronic doll that spat out flat, rote phrases: “Kiss me.” “Hug me.” “That was nice.” It almost made Thomas shudder to think about their sexual encounters. Almost. He could still get off, and he supposed she did too, though he didn’t know for certain.

He was irritated that she hadn’t gotten up with him on his birthday, but then he couldn’t remember if she even knew when his birthday was. If she did, she’d probably conveniently forgotten the date.

Their “relationship” began a few months ago. Thomas had been letting off some steam at a bar called Sharkey’s in downtown Morehead City. He rarely went to bars, but his sister had said something that riled him during a rare phone call — something about Dan forgetting their anniversary, and how Thomas was somehow also at fault for her husband’s forgetfulness — so he thought he’d get drunk and pick up a chick. He usually failed whenever he tried this, but like men everywhere, he knew that this time would be different. He ordered a burger, and then once he’d scarfed that down, he began chugging draft beer in earnest. He scanned the dark-wood interior, but there were few women available. A group of girls dressed in denim skirts and flowing pastel-colored dresses were sitting at a booth, but their giggles and screeching voices terrified him. He could handle one girl by herself, but four of them together would rip him apart if he, a 39-year-old man, approached. At another booth, two chunky women chatted quietly and looked about meekly as they sipped fruity cocktails, well aware that they were the ugliest women there, and the last choices for most men.

There was one possibility at the bar. She was a few pounds overweight, likely in her late 30s or early 40s. Her lipstick was fire-engine red (if the fire-engine had been decommissioned and left out in the weather), and she hadn’t stinted on the rouge, mascara, or eye shadow (it was caked onto her face like some tribal mask). Her best feature was her hair: it was jet-black and lustrous (though probably dyed), and gleamed in the bar’s light. Running his hands through it would be worth the price of admission. (Maybe.)

She looked around the bar, affecting boredom, her eyes never settling on anyone in particular. Whenever the bartender, a hatchet-faced shaggy-haired fellow, walked over to ask if she needed anything, she brushed him off with an icy shake of the head and a quick motion of her hand. She was every bit the former diva who didn’t realize age and chubbiness had destroyed her magnificence.

Nonetheless, Thomas was interested. Yes, she was likely a bitch, but he need not deal with her for more than one night. He just needed to build up his liquid courage a bit more, so he’d be primed when he approached her.

Before he’d accomplished this, however, another man had appeared from somewhere (he could no longer keep track of everyone in the bar; he was feeling a little wobbly-headed, but the liquid courage was apparently late in arriving) and sat down next to her. As Thomas watched, this balding-but-somewhat-muscular man went to work. He was likely one of those middle-aged fitness fanatics, the kind of person who latched onto popular exercise regimens and diets (CrossFit and the paleo diet were in now) with the tenacity of a snapping turtle.

A smiling remark. A light touch on the arm. A laugh too loud and hearty. The woman sat there laconically, smiling Sphinx-like, coolly appraising. Apparently this man was not a loser, as she didn’t send him on his way — at least, not while Thomas was there, because, disgusted and seeing no other options for female intimacy, he had paid up and stormed to the exit.