Good Enough

“So tell me something,” she says. She cocks her head to the side as she asks the question and I think of a pigeon, or maybe a peacock, for some reason. “You don’t cry much, do you?” She asks in an accusing voice, as though she’s caught me masturbating in church.

 

I take another sip of my bourbon and stare at the glass, avoiding her eyes. “Not really,” I say finally.

 

“So what was that bullshit you posted on your profile about being sensitive and caring and stuff? How can you be sensitive if you never cry? That’s like being an athlete who never exercises.” She says it loudly enough for the bartender to hear us and he intently begins drying glasses with a dishcloth. I’m pretty sure I see him creep a few inches closer to us, hoping to listen in on the argument.

 

I shrug, defeated.

 

When I saw her a half an hour ago, sitting at the bar as we’d planned, I almost walked out the door without going over to meet her, but she turned and looked as soon as I opened it and her expression was hopeful. I couldn’t just walk out at that point. I’m too much of a chicken about that sort of thing.

 

She has on a green, chunky turtleneck sweater, turtle colored, and she’s not at all what I was expecting. Her profile picture only showed part of her face, turned away from the camera with a long, cascading head of straight dark hair. Not that I’m anything to look at either, but still, I feel slightly cheated. More than that, I thought she would be funny and talkative, the way she had been in her text messages.

 

“Why would you say you’re sensitive and caring on your profile if you can’t even cry?”

 

“Hey, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to mislead,” I say. I take a long sip and the ice cubes clink together against the glass when I set it down. They sound like the bell of the Salvation Army Santa Claus who stands in front of the grocery store at Christmas time.

 

“Another drink?” I ask her. She motions to her glass, still full. The bartender comes over and pours more bourbon for me.

 

“So, do you like sports?” I say after a while.

 

“No,” she says. “Not really.”

 

Silence. The bartender moves to the other end of the bar now. Nothing interesting over here.

 

“How about movies? What kind do you like to watch?”

 

“Really? We’re going to just talk about movies and sports now after establishing that we’re here on a false premise?”

 

“I’m sorry,” I say again to the glass.

 

There’s another couple on the other side of the bar and I see my date glance over at them wistfully.

 

They’re young, those two. The boy is confident and witty. He sits tall and says things to make the girl laugh aloud. She touches his arm sometimes when she laughs. My date and I stare and then awkwardly look down when they look back at us.

 

“It sucks, doesn’t it?” she says.

 

I nod.

 

“You never think it’s going to be like this. When you’re growing up, I mean.”

 

“No, you never do,” I agree.

 

At the other end of the bar, the couple stands up, putting on their jackets. The boy whispers something into the girl’s ear and she nods, blushing. They giggle as they pass us on their way out the door. The smell of her perfume lingers in the air where they walked by.

 

I can’t help it. I look down at my phone, checking the time, and then look up self consciously. She pretends not to see and looks away. The restaurant at the back of the bar is noisy and I think that maybe I should ask her if she’d like to get something to eat. Someone laughs loudly from back there and the only other person at the bar now is a tall, worn out looking man, sitting a few stools away drinking martinis as though he’s trying to kill all memories of the day he’s had.

 

“Hey, maybe we should…” I start to say. My voice trails off. She looks at me expectantly, but I don’t finish. The thought dies before it reaches my lips and she looks down again.

 

“Good enough,” she says finally. It doesn’t sound like a question, but not like a statement either. I look at her expecting an explanation, but none comes.

 

“I suppose that’s what we hope for,” I say after a moment. She nods. “And we wait and wait, hoping for it to happen, don’t we,” I add. I can feel the drink going to my head and I suddenly feel philosophical.

 

“You know, you’re not really what I was expecting,” she says, with a gentle laugh. “Not at all.”

 

“In what way?” I turn toward her. She shrugs. This time she’s the one who looks down at her phone and then back up at me and sighs.

“Should we?” I ask nodding my head toward the door. She nods. “Good enough.” I wave at the bar tender for the check.