pockets.
At the far end of the lounge, in a corner, a jazz quartet played quietly, barely audible above the din of voices.
As her eyes adjusted to the murky light, Margaret began to look at the laughing, talking, drinking faces around her, moving slowly through the lounge. She went to the bar, got a Bloody Mary, then ambled into the crowd, mingling silently, looking, watching, listening to snatches of conversation.
From behind, Margaret heard a guffawing laugh, and someone slammed into her back. Her Bloody Mary slipped from her hand and splattered over the carpet at her feet.
“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry,” a man said.
She turned to him. He carried a drink in his right hand, and he was enormous, tall with big rounded shoulders, with an enormous belly that his ill-fitting dark suit could not conceal. His face was bloated, red and sweaty; puffy, wrinkled bags formed half-moons beneath his eyes and his hair was slicked back, though it was hard to tell if it was slicked with mousse or perspiration.
When they were facing one another, the man’s eyes moved first over her face, then over her body. “Hey, I’m really sorry.” He glanced down at the spilled drink. “I’ll buy you another one, whatta y’say.”
He’d already had plenty, that was clear. In fact, as he grinned at her, he swayed ever so slightly back and forth. She glanced at his nametag.
HI! I’M DARYL C.
Apparently, his bleary eyes had not yet taken a look at her nametag.
Tucking her purse beneath her left arm, Margaret smiled and said, “I’d like that, thank you.”
“Well, c’mon, then, honey,” he said, taking her elbow in his left hand, a bit too firmly, and leading her through the crowd toward the bar.
On the way, she remembered the things he’d said, the things he’d done . . . in hallways . . . on the steps in front of the school . . . in the gym . . . at dances . . . always with Amelia, the two of them, laughing at her, teasing her, humiliating her . . .
But she’s just so gorgeous, Amelia . . . so sexy . . . I can’t keep my eyes off her. She’s incredible!
“What’ll you have, hon?” he asked, setting his drink on the bar and lighting a cigarette.
“Well, that was a Bloody Mary that I dropped back there.”
“Then a Bloody Mary you’ll have.” He pounded a fist on the bar and ordered the drink, then turned back to her. “Hey, are you with the reun — oh, yeah, you gotta nametag. Margaret? Hmph,” he grunted, looking her over with a frown, as if someone had just asked him a riddle, his mouth twisted into a wriggly line. “I can’t say I remember a Margaret. What’s your last name?”
The drink arrived and he paid for it.
Margaret lifted the drink, took a sip and said, “Well, I can’t say I remember a Daryl, really . . . Oh, no, I take that back. There was one Daryl. But he was a real hunk. Muscular and handsome. A quarterback. You’re pretty chubby.”
His eyes widened and he grinned as he spread his arms as if to embrace her. “Hey, that’s me, sweetheart! Daryl Cotch! The one and only!”
She smiled. “Is that right?” she asked, patting his belly with the back of her hand. “What happened, Daryl?”
“Oh, y’know . . . got married, had a few kids. Settlin’ down’ll do that to ya. But, hey . . . I still got what it takes.”
“Is your wife here?”
“Oh, yeah, she’s around here somewhere,” he muttered with a shrug. “But what about you? I don’t remember you, and believe me I’d remember you!”
“Come on, Daryl, how many Margarets did you know in high school?” she asked as hatred burned in her gut. She was afraid it would explode and vomit out of her mouth all over Daryl’s too-tight suit.
He chuckled, sipped his drink and said, “Well, the only Margaret I knew was this real fat girl who looked like — ”
“Margaret Fuller?”
His eyebrows shot up. “Yeah, that’s the one! You remember her? God she was — ” His face froze as he looked at her, as she smiled at him, as
At the far end of the lounge, in a corner, a jazz quartet played quietly, barely audible above the din of voices.
As her eyes adjusted to the murky light, Margaret began to look at the laughing, talking, drinking faces around her, moving slowly through the lounge. She went to the bar, got a Bloody Mary, then ambled into the crowd, mingling silently, looking, watching, listening to snatches of conversation.
From behind, Margaret heard a guffawing laugh, and someone slammed into her back. Her Bloody Mary slipped from her hand and splattered over the carpet at her feet.
“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry,” a man said.
She turned to him. He carried a drink in his right hand, and he was enormous, tall with big rounded shoulders, with an enormous belly that his ill-fitting dark suit could not conceal. His face was bloated, red and sweaty; puffy, wrinkled bags formed half-moons beneath his eyes and his hair was slicked back, though it was hard to tell if it was slicked with mousse or perspiration.
When they were facing one another, the man’s eyes moved first over her face, then over her body. “Hey, I’m really sorry.” He glanced down at the spilled drink. “I’ll buy you another one, whatta y’say.”
He’d already had plenty, that was clear. In fact, as he grinned at her, he swayed ever so slightly back and forth. She glanced at his nametag.
HI! I’M DARYL C.
Apparently, his bleary eyes had not yet taken a look at her nametag.
Tucking her purse beneath her left arm, Margaret smiled and said, “I’d like that, thank you.”
“Well, c’mon, then, honey,” he said, taking her elbow in his left hand, a bit too firmly, and leading her through the crowd toward the bar.
On the way, she remembered the things he’d said, the things he’d done . . . in hallways . . . on the steps in front of the school . . . in the gym . . . at dances . . . always with Amelia, the two of them, laughing at her, teasing her, humiliating her . . .
But she’s just so gorgeous, Amelia . . . so sexy . . . I can’t keep my eyes off her. She’s incredible!
“What’ll you have, hon?” he asked, setting his drink on the bar and lighting a cigarette.
“Well, that was a Bloody Mary that I dropped back there.”
“Then a Bloody Mary you’ll have.” He pounded a fist on the bar and ordered the drink, then turned back to her. “Hey, are you with the reun — oh, yeah, you gotta nametag. Margaret? Hmph,” he grunted, looking her over with a frown, as if someone had just asked him a riddle, his mouth twisted into a wriggly line. “I can’t say I remember a Margaret. What’s your last name?”
The drink arrived and he paid for it.
Margaret lifted the drink, took a sip and said, “Well, I can’t say I remember a Daryl, really . . . Oh, no, I take that back. There was one Daryl. But he was a real hunk. Muscular and handsome. A quarterback. You’re pretty chubby.”
His eyes widened and he grinned as he spread his arms as if to embrace her. “Hey, that’s me, sweetheart! Daryl Cotch! The one and only!”
She smiled. “Is that right?” she asked, patting his belly with the back of her hand. “What happened, Daryl?”
“Oh, y’know . . . got married, had a few kids. Settlin’ down’ll do that to ya. But, hey . . . I still got what it takes.”
“Is your wife here?”
“Oh, yeah, she’s around here somewhere,” he muttered with a shrug. “But what about you? I don’t remember you, and believe me I’d remember you!”
“Come on, Daryl, how many Margarets did you know in high school?” she asked as hatred burned in her gut. She was afraid it would explode and vomit out of her mouth all over Daryl’s too-tight suit.
He chuckled, sipped his drink and said, “Well, the only Margaret I knew was this real fat girl who looked like — ”
“Margaret Fuller?”
His eyebrows shot up. “Yeah, that’s the one! You remember her? God she was — ” His face froze as he looked at her, as she smiled at him, as
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