Circles

My life is a series of circles.

Tissue, milk, shampoo, eggs, orange juice, frozen pizza, cotton balls, toilet paper, one by one, all items get scanned. Buttons are pressed. Money is taken. Change handed back. “Have a great day”. Repeat. Over and over. Day after day. A neverending loop.

Suddenly a voice jolts me out of an endless continuum. A familiar voice. His voice.

“Why is it,” he begins, “that every time I see your face my day gets better?”

I bite my bottom lip and my gaze moves upward, up arms, chest, shoulders, face, until my eyes meet his and I can not stop smiling.

“Maybe you just really love shopping.”

“Oh no, Laura…” His voice is pure friction. “it’s definitely you.”

And just that fast I fall and keep falling. Thump. A thousand shards of glass scatter. Thoughts stop. My blood loops, twists and drops, deep, deeper. It happens just that easy. I’m gone. Again.

He asks me out and I say yes even though every brain cell in my head is saying ‘Alert, Alert, Don’t do it’. I should know better by now. Every time I’ve dared to disturb the perfect roundness of my world, it collapses under my feet into disjointed lines. Just when somebody thinks they know me, thinks I’m who they really wanted, something happens and I disappoint them. Every. Single. Time.

Jack picks me up in his silver Ford Mustang. I’m wearing a tight black strapless dress, a mask of makeup and a shield of perfume, armed and ready for battle.

I walk up the steps of Vido’s Italian Restaurant trying not to fall in 2-inch heels. Inside, shelves of wine bottles line the pale green walls. We’re seated under a strawberry stained glass chandelier. Two candle flames dance shadows across the table and seem to burn in Jack’s hazel eyes. Jack’s gaze could melt gold.

He orders a bottle of the house burgundy. I swallow thick red-purple and breathe in deeply.

“So tell me Jack… What do you look for in a woman?”

“Ummm…” He looks up and tilts his head to one side, “I’m not quite sure… maybe femininity?” So I order the minestrone soup and salad instead of the four cheese lasagna.

After initial small talk, an awkward lull surrounds us. Jack shifts in his seat and glances elsewhere. I’m losing this battle. I have to think fast.

I ask him about his job as a securities lawyer and it works. He comes alive explaining something called FINRA which I don’t understand but that doesn’t matter.

Then a loud clanking sucks me out of Jack’s orbit. A man with Nick Nolte mugshot hair and shriveled eyes is waving his fork at his companion, who is slumped over her plate, long earrings dangling into her food.

“Numbers don’t lie.” He’s yelling at her.

I try to ignore the distraction.

“I paint.” I blurt out to Jack, “Did I ever tell you that?”

Trying to keep the conversation fresh, I describe how pressing the stiff hairs of a paintbrush through globs of oiled color and spreading them precisely on a rough canvas is everything I need to save my world. Well almost everything.

But as I talk my voice is overtaken, once again, by our neighbor, Mr. Crazy. He’s spewing food with each rant and clanking and scratching his fork against his glass.

He starts hacking up some sort of crackling phlegm from his throat and the waiter looks over but does nothing. The woman is shuddering, head hanging just inches above her plate. She’s shaking. Oh no! She’s crying!

“Good for nothing, that’s you.” He says.

“Excuse me,” I say to Jack.

I push my chair back and walk over to the table. I grab the fork right out of the crazy man’s hand.

“Leave this woman alone!” I say. 

The woman looks up and I swear she gives me the tiniest sliver of a smile. The crazy man glares but says nothing. Jack’s eyes are full of surprise.

Our waiter delivers our meals and as we start to eat, Jack looks at me and says, “I know how to answer your question now.”

“What question?”

“What I look for in a woman.”

“Yeah… What?”

“Spunk.”

He looks at me, through me, into me, breaking into my circle, melding into my universe, entering my bloodstream.

I look down at my food. I’m smiling. I bite my bottom lip. Heat is rising. I feel flushed. Maybe this time will be different.