Discussion Of A Man

Discussion of a Man By J.A. O'Sullivan Their cell phones lay screen-up on the table, at angles that distorted the symmetry of the place settings. Every few moments one of the phones flared up, or buzzed itself a few inches over. The two conversants, however, were discussing a new man, and the phones were left to their pyrotechnics. "I was sick from the alcohol, and he held me all night." Jennifer toyed with the edges of her paper napkin as she spoke. "I couldn't keep down dinner. But it was excellent. All of it, the dinner, everything. At breakfast, he had my sections of the newspaper laid out next my plate." "Engagements?" "The style section. Don't be a prick." "That sounds good. Positive. Nurturing." Jason began shredding his napkin from the nearest corner. They waited for dim sum. "He'd better call. That's all I know. And you should remember the newspaper trick. It's a good one." "Maybe I could find out her magazine subscriptions." "Maybe you would, if you weren't so fucking busy brooding." "You haven't told me what he's like." Jennifer twirled a butter knife between her fingers. "He's trained in knife fighting." "Don't tell me he's a Navy Seal. That last Navy Seal was a creep." "They're all creeps." "But this one's not." "Not yet." Jason sipped ice water and surveyed the damage to his napkin. He would have to ask the waitress for another. "He's smart. Aggressive in a gentle way. Can take of himself." "Like aristocratic rapist." "Be kind." "What was he like in bed?" "Don't ask me that. Where's our fucking dim sum? We went for hours." "For dim sum, yes. We are going for hours." "No, in bed. For hours. He was strong, and knew when to pull back." "Pull out?" "Now you're being a creep." "What does he do?" "He's an artist." "Starving?" "No." "Corporate, then." "No. Successful. Do you know anything about that?" "Now you're being the prick. My last sculpture was featured at the state butter queen festival." "And proud of you we all are." Jennifer stopped toying with her napkin. "Sorry, now I'm being a prick. It was a great sculpture." Their dim sum arrived. They ate without sound, mostly. Nearby, an old man spilled ice onto his lap and howled. "He canceled our date tonight. He can't be that guy. The perfect disappearing guy." "The world is full of them, from what I'm told." "You wouldn't believe how many." "I'm perfect, and I stay right here." "You stay a little too right here. You need a trip to Russia. Or Toledo." "I hear Toledo's nice this time of year." "Take your backpack. You can hike the asphalt. He has to call me. He's going to call me, right?"

"Why did he cancel?" Jason asked for another napkin. The shreds of the last one were piled in a burial mound near the faux sugar. The waitress did not clean it up, nor did she react when he smiled at her. "He had a previous engagement." "A previous engagement? He didn't call it a thing, did he? Like, 'I have this thing?'" "No, he didn't even call it a previous engagement. Just plans with friends that he had forgotten about. He's a fucking liar, isn't he." "Was that a question? I didn't hear a question mark." "He's a fucking liar, isn't he?" "Give him the benefit of the doubt." "I don't do that." "You have to." "I know that." The old man walked by. The lap of his pants was soaked. The waitress smiled at him. "That waitress smiles at everybody but me." "Ask her out." "I don't think so." They washed away the dim sum with more tea. There had drunk so much tea that they each hit the bathroom twice. "If he doesn't call I'm going to become a nun. Or start fucking that busboy." "You're not Catholic." "That has nothing to do with the busboy." "He'll call." "You put a lot of faith in mankind." "I am mankind. I am optimistic for our potential." "I have to go. We're rolling out some new advertisements for one of our clients. It's work till midnight night." "Enjoy. He'll call." "Ask out that waitress." Jennifer's receding silhouette left an impression against the chandelier-lit glow of the dining room. Jason found it hard to concentrate on his newspaper; a story about dead Sri Lankans. The waitress, a slender skyscraper, asked if he would like dessert. Jason said yes, though he didn't. It allowed him words with her. He didn't know dessert what he ordered, and when he received it, he was surprised. He asked the waitress what newspaper sections she liked most. "I don't read the newspaper." Her forearms, inked with tribal designs, traveled the table, picking up trash. "How then, do you take your news?" "I don't. It's best that way." "I could read the newspaper to you." "You could. But you never will." Jason signed the credit slip, tipped too much and left to pack for Toledo.