man in the world.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
On craigslist I post the photo from my work website, the one with my hair scraped back in a ponytail, exposing my shiny forehead, my thin lips, my arms bursting from the sleeves of my blue blouse. Daughter seeks Father is all I write as a caption. In response I receive an avalanche of cell-phone numbers, chat invitations, and penis pics lifted from porn sites.
I delete all the emails except for Richardâs: Sweetheart, please call home. I sit for a moment hunched in my cubicle, sweating, before lifting the receiver and dialing his number.
Daddy? I whisper, hand up to cover my mouth so no one walking by can see it moving.
He doesnât skip a beat. Sweetheart! he says.
Did you see the photo? I ask.
Of course, he says.
Iâm not better in person, I warn.
Youâre perfect, he assures me.
Iâm married, I tell him. I have a kid.
No problem, he insists.
I chew the inside of my cheek. Thereâs not going to be any sex, I say.
Absolutely not! he agrees.
I wait for him to say something creepy or disgusting, but he doesnât. We make arrangements to meet at McDonaldâs for dinner on Thursday.
Donât kill me, I say, and he laughs.
Oh sweetheart, he says. What on earth?
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Iâm early. I donât know what Daddy looks like and every time the door swings open my head jerks like a ball on a string. I convince myself Iâm going to be stood up and that it will be better anyway if I am. But at seven on the dot he enters and he looks straight at me and waves.
Our usual, sweetheart? he says, loud enough for other people to hear, and I nod. He brings a tray of chicken nugget combos to my table. He kisses my cheek. The food steams in our hands as we look at each other; he seems about twenty, twenty-two, with chinos frayed at the bottoms and red hair and glasses and biceps as skinny as my wrist. Maybe someday he will be good-looking.
Extra barbecue sauce, just the way you like, he says, gesturing to my nuggets. I smile and take a bite. He asks me about school and I ask him about work and he is as interested in how Iâm doing in gym class as I am in the stocks heâs trading at the office; we slip into our new roles as easily as knives into butter.
I almost forgot, he says. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a CD with a Christmas bow stuck on it. Just a little something, he adds, and hands it to me. I unstick the bow and turn the CD over in my hands: Britney Spears. I bounce, once, and my left butt cheek, which doesnât quite fit on the plastic chair, bangs on the edge of the seat.
Oh Daddy, I say, touched because I know he went into a store and asked what would be the right thing to get for his little girl, and he paid for it with his own money and put it in his pocket and found the gaudy bow to go with it and then brought it all the way here, to me, because he knew he would like me and already wanted to give me something, and this makes me want to give everything I have to him in return.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Apart from Thursday nightsâand itâs always Thursdays, always nightsâwe donât communicate, except by email. Sometimes heâll send me a note just to say, Have a great day!! or heâll tell me what plans he has for dinner: Working late need a treat pizza sound good??? or heâll hint at imagined happenings in my little-girl life: Donât forget dentist today xoxoxoxo!! and Good luck on the history quiz I know youâll do awesome!!!! I write back in equally breathless terms to report the results of the history quiz or the number of cavities rotting my teeth or to squeal over the impending pizza feast. These exchanges give me a high so intense my chest muscles spasm and when my boss calls and says to bring her such-and-such a document I hit print and out comes an email from Daddy, not the work document, and I giggle into my hand and hit print
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
On craigslist I post the photo from my work website, the one with my hair scraped back in a ponytail, exposing my shiny forehead, my thin lips, my arms bursting from the sleeves of my blue blouse. Daughter seeks Father is all I write as a caption. In response I receive an avalanche of cell-phone numbers, chat invitations, and penis pics lifted from porn sites.
I delete all the emails except for Richardâs: Sweetheart, please call home. I sit for a moment hunched in my cubicle, sweating, before lifting the receiver and dialing his number.
Daddy? I whisper, hand up to cover my mouth so no one walking by can see it moving.
He doesnât skip a beat. Sweetheart! he says.
Did you see the photo? I ask.
Of course, he says.
Iâm not better in person, I warn.
Youâre perfect, he assures me.
Iâm married, I tell him. I have a kid.
No problem, he insists.
I chew the inside of my cheek. Thereâs not going to be any sex, I say.
Absolutely not! he agrees.
I wait for him to say something creepy or disgusting, but he doesnât. We make arrangements to meet at McDonaldâs for dinner on Thursday.
Donât kill me, I say, and he laughs.
Oh sweetheart, he says. What on earth?
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Iâm early. I donât know what Daddy looks like and every time the door swings open my head jerks like a ball on a string. I convince myself Iâm going to be stood up and that it will be better anyway if I am. But at seven on the dot he enters and he looks straight at me and waves.
Our usual, sweetheart? he says, loud enough for other people to hear, and I nod. He brings a tray of chicken nugget combos to my table. He kisses my cheek. The food steams in our hands as we look at each other; he seems about twenty, twenty-two, with chinos frayed at the bottoms and red hair and glasses and biceps as skinny as my wrist. Maybe someday he will be good-looking.
Extra barbecue sauce, just the way you like, he says, gesturing to my nuggets. I smile and take a bite. He asks me about school and I ask him about work and he is as interested in how Iâm doing in gym class as I am in the stocks heâs trading at the office; we slip into our new roles as easily as knives into butter.
I almost forgot, he says. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a CD with a Christmas bow stuck on it. Just a little something, he adds, and hands it to me. I unstick the bow and turn the CD over in my hands: Britney Spears. I bounce, once, and my left butt cheek, which doesnât quite fit on the plastic chair, bangs on the edge of the seat.
Oh Daddy, I say, touched because I know he went into a store and asked what would be the right thing to get for his little girl, and he paid for it with his own money and put it in his pocket and found the gaudy bow to go with it and then brought it all the way here, to me, because he knew he would like me and already wanted to give me something, and this makes me want to give everything I have to him in return.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Apart from Thursday nightsâand itâs always Thursdays, always nightsâwe donât communicate, except by email. Sometimes heâll send me a note just to say, Have a great day!! or heâll tell me what plans he has for dinner: Working late need a treat pizza sound good??? or heâll hint at imagined happenings in my little-girl life: Donât forget dentist today xoxoxoxo!! and Good luck on the history quiz I know youâll do awesome!!!! I write back in equally breathless terms to report the results of the history quiz or the number of cavities rotting my teeth or to squeal over the impending pizza feast. These exchanges give me a high so intense my chest muscles spasm and when my boss calls and says to bring her such-and-such a document I hit print and out comes an email from Daddy, not the work document, and I giggle into my hand and hit print
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