Reservations

It wasn’t so much that he had some image of himself that involved long hair. It was more a phobia of haircuts – sharp things that close to his head in someone else’s hand. He raked his fingers through his hair subconsciously, a habit grown from never having a brush around when needed. He pulled the shades. He was so tired. Room-darkening shades, and curtains, meant to disguise the day, fool him into thinking it was night, so he could sleep. In the pitch black he kicked off his boots and clothes. Darkness, like his hair, was a warm comfort. They were safe friends, shields, a wall. He crawled beneath friendly old covers.

She wondered. Does a man like to hold as much as a woman likes to be held? A new thought. She was pretty sure they didn’t like to cuddle except that it be a means to a selfish end.

His former housemates had all married. There were no longer guests over, no longer anyone to fuss about where stuff was or how the place looked, so there seemed little reason to do chores. Since the wife and family thing never materialized for him, he took on an extra job. Those former roommates had kids now. And those kids kept having birthdays. There were still parties these days and they still cost. So did utilities when you had to shoulder them all yourself.

It was a strange thing to be picked up exactly on time and to be expected to be ready. No, “Make yourself at home on the couch,” while she deliberately goads his imagination to titillating places as she talks to him from the bedroom where she is sure to surreptitiously let him know that jeans are sliding up her legs and a blouse across her bosom.

Life was good. Jobs were routine now, no longer was he the new guy trying to learn the ropes. Home was a comfortable place to crash, and now he had a blonde to hang on his arm so his buddies’ wives stopped trying to hook him up with their sisters.

He was very particular about being on time. And he never kept her out late. Like she was a teenager with a father he had to answer to. It was a trade. He needed her to accompany him to his friends’ houses and she was to think of something to get from him in return. From long years of living foolishly, her health wasn’t what it once was. She opted for help with odd jobs. He’d had a peculiar approach to it though. He required her to be very specific with what needed to be done, and he arrived and finished at predetermined times.

Okay so he had his hairstylist phobia, but that wasn’t so bad considering how much a mess his life could be. Should be. Once was. Before his old roomies had to take him in, he really had been living on the streets. Now he was taking care of himself, and it wasn’t even that hard. He wasn’t gonna let some girl mess him up. He didn’t think he could do that whole homeowner, husband, and father thing that his buddies were doing. But he could keep going as he was. It was working and it was good.

All his buddies’ kids called him uncle. Now they were starting to call her aunt. She liked that. She liked him too, and had come to understand, at least in part, his careful approach to her. At his friends' houses she began to gain some insight. He was no innocent. He acted like one. But that was because that’s what he wanted to be, not because he was.

She hadn’t lost her flirtatious touch, but she refrained using it for damage with him. Just a date, she thought, just them, out somewhere. He was fragile. She saw that. He was loved. She envied that. But they each had pasts they regretted, that they paid for, that scared them. That was a point of connection.

His hands took turns combing through his hair. Reservations were made, so there would be no waiting for a table. Talking about work, since that’s how they knew each other, should be easy enough, safe enough, and, as usual, he had his night job to get to, so a reason not to linger.

A call came just as their entree arrived. He checked the display. “Sorry, I have to take this one, it’s work.” He looked so worried when he returned that she couldn’t help but reach out to touch him. He jumped back.

“What’s the matter?”

He didn’t answer right away. He struggled with letting her know that he’d been called off and now there was no need to hurry her home after dinner. He raked both hands through his hair. She reached for them.

And later, in the park, he held her. Just held her. He didn’t seem to mind that her left side didn’t work too well. Somehow she’d told him how recklessly, how foolishly, how regrettably she’d lived. She wasn’t nearly old enough to feel so old.

He’d never known he could comfort. When one of the little kids scraped a knee or stubbed a toe he always backed away and let their mothers take over. But here she was in his arms. And he was glad he had nowhere he needed to be.