The Not-So-Perfect Man by Valerie Frankel Page A

you’ve been working so hard. I really appreciate it.’ He’ll run with it.”
    “That’s it?” Betty asked.
    Gert nodded. “I don’t think he’ll need much encouragement. Look at it this way: He’s been in town for a month. He doesn’t seem to have a lot of friends in New York. He works all day, and then, according to my covert intelligence, he goes to his hotel each night after work. This guy needs to get out, be with people. Most people need social interaction and regular sex.”
    “So you’re saying he’s desperate for company, so he might as well use me,” said Betty. “And what’s with the ‘covert intelligence’?”
    Gert said, “Just go over there and be nice. I know it might kill you to smile, but a date is worth the risk.”
    Betty said, “I’ll sleep on it and get back to you.”
    “You’ll do it right now,” said Gert. She raised her arm and started waving. “Earl!” she called. “Come over here for a minute.”
    Betty was trapped. Gert had blocked her exit from behind the checkout counter. And Earl was walking toward them, easy and slow, like an ambling, moseying cowboy, wrapping the long black cord of the earphones around his hand like a lasso.
    He stopped in front of the counter, leaning against it so his belt make a ting sound when it came into contact with the glass. He said, “What’s up?”
    Betty froze. She couldn’t move, nor speak. Gert nudged her. But Betty’s nerves had taken control of her voice box, wrapping themselves around it, choking her.
    Finally, Gert opened her mouth to speak. She would break the ice. Betty could have kissed her.
    “I’ve got to run,” said Gert. “Later!”
    Betty could have killed her. She attempted to smile at Earl, and she felt a shot of pain rip through her forehead. Aneurysm? Stroke? She might die after all. Gert was right: It would kill her to smile.
    Earl said, “Gert wants you to ask me out, right?”
    “You’ll have to excuse me while I go throw up,” said Betty. She tried to escape the trap behind the counter, run to the bathroom where she could easily surrender the contents of her stomach.
    “No, wait,” he said. “I’ll save you the trouble.”
    “The trouble?” she asked, not comprehending his meaning, her cement-mixer stomach having usurped the blood flow to her brain.
    He said, “I’ll take you to dinner tonight. And then we can walk around the East Village. You live in Alphabet City, right?”
    “Only tourists say Alphabet City,” she said. Why was she being dismissive, even now, when he was asking her out? She said, “Sorry. I don’t intend to be rude.”
    “Be as rude as you want,” he said. It was like a dare. He was asking her to give him her best shot, and they’d see who was still standing at the end of the night. If they made it that far.
    He said, “So? Tonight?”
    “Why are you doing this?” she asked.
    He said, “It’s obvious you don’t think much of yourself, Betty. I know it must mean something is fucked up about me, but I find your low self-esteem appealing. I like the humility of it. And the challenge to make you think better of yourself. I can do it. I’m sure I can.”
    She drew in a breath and said, “You’re absolutely right.”
    Earl said, “I am?”
    “Yes,” she said. “There is something fucked up about you.”

Chapter 15
    Saturday, November 16
9:30 P . M .
    “Yes, Frieda,” said Ilene. “He’s very good.”
    “More than good,” said Frieda. “He’s awesome!”
    Ilene regarded her younger sister, the beaming face, the excited flutter of her hands. They stood outside the theater during intermission. It had to be 40 degrees on the street. Frieda hadn’t bothered to button her coat. Ilene said, “David seems to be enjoying the show.”
    “David?” asked Frieda, transfixed by a six-foot-high poster of Sam Hill as Fagin hanging from the theater’s canopy.
    “My friend,” prompted Ilene. “The man sitting next to you in the aisle seat?”
    “Of course,”