walking over the gravel in her high heels. As she strides up to the porch, a fat lizard zig-zags across the stucco. She swings the door open, feels the cold blast off the air-conditioner.
‘I’ll be the guy in the blue shirt,’
he’d said.
‘Every second guy in the world has a blue shirt: wear a hat.’
‘That won’t make no difference: every second guy in Mississippi wears a hat anyhow.’
‘
Just wear it
,’ she’d said.
A waitress is smoothing out a bundle of dollar bills at the bar. She stubs out her cigarette when she sees Roslin and gives her a four o’clock smile. A guy wearing a blue shirt is sitting by the windows with his back to her.There’s a cowboy hat on his table. The only customer in the place. Roslin walks right up to him.
‘You Guthrie?’
‘That’s me. You Roslin?’
She nods.
‘’Fraid I got tired wearing the hat.’ He gestures to his head, stupid, like she wouldn’t know where a hat went. He’d planned to stand up and pull out her chair, show some manners, but Roslin’s sitting down already, hooking the plastic strap of her purse over the back of her seat. She’s a lot prettier than he expected. He thought she’d be a fat girl with that telephone laugh.
She thinks this mustn’t be his first time. He’s too cool-headed , his face is smooth as chrome, dented below the cheek-bones. Nothing to say this isn’t just a casual meeting between two friends, that she isn’t just some lady who’s strolled in and sat down beside him ’cos there’s nobody else in the joint and she needs a little company. But they aren’t too concerned. Chances are, if somebody they know does walk in, they won’t be honeymooners neither, lunching on this blue shift. All that thinking and talking for too long over the phone and now they’re here, taking this chance, sitting opposite one another in a Mississippi watering hole with nothing to hold on to. Damn.
‘I was thinking maybe you’d changed your mind,’ he says, placing his palm down flat on the oilcloth. His nails are long. A band of pale skin stands out on his third finger. ‘You wanna drink or something?’
‘Hell, yeah. You eaten?’ She pulls the red napkin out of her glass and spreads it out on her lap.
‘Naw. I was holding out for you.’
He holds his menu up between them like a shield and chooses his words.
‘You like seafood?’
‘Sure I like seafood. What you think I am? Jewish?’
He doesn’t have anything to say to that.
‘Jesus, you ain’t Jewish, is you?’ she says.
He laughs. ‘You the prettiest thing I seen in a long time,’ he says, thinking it sounds like a bad line when he hears it out loud. He’d rehearsed his lines all the way over, damn near rear-ended a Corvette, and here he is saying the oldest words in the book too soon. This lady smells good. She’s blonde and tanned and smart, a real windfall. She pouts her lips and looks down at the menu. There’s black mascara on her eyelashes, blue shadow on the lids; he can see how dark her hair is at the roots.
They read the courses on the menu, their eyes roving over the dishes, all the hors d’oeuvres, the entrées, the dessert menu on the back, and the different beers from all over the world from the drinks page. Roslin could go for a big fat slice of that Devil’s Food cake, but the hook on her brassiere is pinching her back as it is. She hasn’t worn it since they had Nelson’s youngster christened up in Mobile. Guthrie thinks he better order something with no garlic, no onions neither.
The waitress comes over and takes a pencil from behind her ear.
‘You folks ready?’
She keeps her eyes on his cowboy hat while she takes their orders. It’s a great big hat with a feather stuck in the band. Oysters Rockefeller and dirty rice with another Bud for the cowboy. Boiled crawfish for the lady, and Scotch, straight up.
‘You ain’t driving?’ he says.
‘No. I got here on a white mule.’
‘The lady’s got a sense of humour. I like
‘I’ll be the guy in the blue shirt,’
he’d said.
‘Every second guy in the world has a blue shirt: wear a hat.’
‘That won’t make no difference: every second guy in Mississippi wears a hat anyhow.’
‘
Just wear it
,’ she’d said.
A waitress is smoothing out a bundle of dollar bills at the bar. She stubs out her cigarette when she sees Roslin and gives her a four o’clock smile. A guy wearing a blue shirt is sitting by the windows with his back to her.There’s a cowboy hat on his table. The only customer in the place. Roslin walks right up to him.
‘You Guthrie?’
‘That’s me. You Roslin?’
She nods.
‘’Fraid I got tired wearing the hat.’ He gestures to his head, stupid, like she wouldn’t know where a hat went. He’d planned to stand up and pull out her chair, show some manners, but Roslin’s sitting down already, hooking the plastic strap of her purse over the back of her seat. She’s a lot prettier than he expected. He thought she’d be a fat girl with that telephone laugh.
She thinks this mustn’t be his first time. He’s too cool-headed , his face is smooth as chrome, dented below the cheek-bones. Nothing to say this isn’t just a casual meeting between two friends, that she isn’t just some lady who’s strolled in and sat down beside him ’cos there’s nobody else in the joint and she needs a little company. But they aren’t too concerned. Chances are, if somebody they know does walk in, they won’t be honeymooners neither, lunching on this blue shift. All that thinking and talking for too long over the phone and now they’re here, taking this chance, sitting opposite one another in a Mississippi watering hole with nothing to hold on to. Damn.
‘I was thinking maybe you’d changed your mind,’ he says, placing his palm down flat on the oilcloth. His nails are long. A band of pale skin stands out on his third finger. ‘You wanna drink or something?’
‘Hell, yeah. You eaten?’ She pulls the red napkin out of her glass and spreads it out on her lap.
‘Naw. I was holding out for you.’
He holds his menu up between them like a shield and chooses his words.
‘You like seafood?’
‘Sure I like seafood. What you think I am? Jewish?’
He doesn’t have anything to say to that.
‘Jesus, you ain’t Jewish, is you?’ she says.
He laughs. ‘You the prettiest thing I seen in a long time,’ he says, thinking it sounds like a bad line when he hears it out loud. He’d rehearsed his lines all the way over, damn near rear-ended a Corvette, and here he is saying the oldest words in the book too soon. This lady smells good. She’s blonde and tanned and smart, a real windfall. She pouts her lips and looks down at the menu. There’s black mascara on her eyelashes, blue shadow on the lids; he can see how dark her hair is at the roots.
They read the courses on the menu, their eyes roving over the dishes, all the hors d’oeuvres, the entrées, the dessert menu on the back, and the different beers from all over the world from the drinks page. Roslin could go for a big fat slice of that Devil’s Food cake, but the hook on her brassiere is pinching her back as it is. She hasn’t worn it since they had Nelson’s youngster christened up in Mobile. Guthrie thinks he better order something with no garlic, no onions neither.
The waitress comes over and takes a pencil from behind her ear.
‘You folks ready?’
She keeps her eyes on his cowboy hat while she takes their orders. It’s a great big hat with a feather stuck in the band. Oysters Rockefeller and dirty rice with another Bud for the cowboy. Boiled crawfish for the lady, and Scotch, straight up.
‘You ain’t driving?’ he says.
‘No. I got here on a white mule.’
‘The lady’s got a sense of humour. I like
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