wouldnât take. There werenât many options, and Marco kidded her about not calling up the âdancers with good attitude wantedâ numbers. The ads never said topless or nude, but they said they were looking for women interested in fun and adventures.
âWould you ever consider doing something like that?â Marco asked. Marco worked out a few mornings a week in the gym, and his body smelled of the weight roomâlike steel.
âI used to work in a bar,â Marybeth said. âNever topless, but I thought it was a great way to make money.â She was suddenly anxious to be doing something besides sitting around the apartment.
âI remember,â Marco said. âI was there the night Doug met you.
âReally?â Marybeth asked.
âShows you what an impression I make on women,â Marco said, though he did not believe this. He thought women paid an awful lot of attention to him. He had always been pleased with the way women noticed him.
âYou were probably too drunk to remember me,â Marybeth said. It didnât feel like they were flirting, but she was aware that Marco was looking at her, and she wondered what he saw. The operations had made her tired. She rarely bothered to put on anything besides a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.
âNot as drunk as Rodney,â Marco said. âHe threw up that coconut crap from those piña coladas for days.â
âIf he had paid for his own drinks, he wouldnât have been so sick.â Marybeth was not a firm believer in karma, but there were times when she thought she understood how it worked.
Marybethâs toes were completely independent of each other, but the operation had changed nothing in her life. She hadnât expected a miracle, but she had thought something would have changed. Her foot ached. She rubbed tiger balm around her toes, but the dull pain was always there. Marybeth was allergic to narcotics, so Marco suggested she drink.
âA glass of wine might help you relax,â he told her. She could not find the corkscrew, so they split a can of beer and played a game of cribbage. They finished the beers in the refrigerator and, after a while, her foot did feel better. She no longer felt any pain.
When Marco asked her if she wanted some time to study, she told him that she had given up the idea of getting an MBA. They went to lunch at the Mexican restaurant on Key Biscayne. It was a slow time of the day to be thereâthe waitresses were filling salt and pepper shakers, the bartender was watching soap operas. They ordered nachos and margaritas and discussed their dream jobs. Marybethâs idea of a great way to earn money had something to do with clothes and glamorous people. No, she didnât want to be a model, but she wouldnât mind working on commercials. Marco confided that he had always wanted to be a deep-sea diver, then blushed, knowing this was a lie. He was terrified of the ocean. Like jumping from an airplane, deep-sea diving was something he liked to watch in movies but had no desire to try himself. Iâm talking her up, Marco thought. Iâm talking up my best friendâs wife.
âIâve always hated swimming,â Marybeth said. âBecause of my toes. I was afraid that people would look at me and think I was a duck or something.â She did not tell him about the fourth-graders on the playground, but he said he understood how cruel people could be.
He asked if he could see her foot and she said no, but after a third round of margaritas, when her tongue was heavy with salt, she pulled off her too-big sandalâthe one she bought for sixty-nine cents at the drugstoreâand pulled her knee up to the table. Marco leaned across the booth to have a look, and his right hand knocked the margarita into her lap. The blended drink was cold against her bare legs; she let out a short screech. Marco apologized and went up to the bar for some rags to clean it up.
âWould you ever consider doing something like that?â Marco asked. Marco worked out a few mornings a week in the gym, and his body smelled of the weight roomâlike steel.
âI used to work in a bar,â Marybeth said. âNever topless, but I thought it was a great way to make money.â She was suddenly anxious to be doing something besides sitting around the apartment.
âI remember,â Marco said. âI was there the night Doug met you.
âReally?â Marybeth asked.
âShows you what an impression I make on women,â Marco said, though he did not believe this. He thought women paid an awful lot of attention to him. He had always been pleased with the way women noticed him.
âYou were probably too drunk to remember me,â Marybeth said. It didnât feel like they were flirting, but she was aware that Marco was looking at her, and she wondered what he saw. The operations had made her tired. She rarely bothered to put on anything besides a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.
âNot as drunk as Rodney,â Marco said. âHe threw up that coconut crap from those piña coladas for days.â
âIf he had paid for his own drinks, he wouldnât have been so sick.â Marybeth was not a firm believer in karma, but there were times when she thought she understood how it worked.
Marybethâs toes were completely independent of each other, but the operation had changed nothing in her life. She hadnât expected a miracle, but she had thought something would have changed. Her foot ached. She rubbed tiger balm around her toes, but the dull pain was always there. Marybeth was allergic to narcotics, so Marco suggested she drink.
âA glass of wine might help you relax,â he told her. She could not find the corkscrew, so they split a can of beer and played a game of cribbage. They finished the beers in the refrigerator and, after a while, her foot did feel better. She no longer felt any pain.
When Marco asked her if she wanted some time to study, she told him that she had given up the idea of getting an MBA. They went to lunch at the Mexican restaurant on Key Biscayne. It was a slow time of the day to be thereâthe waitresses were filling salt and pepper shakers, the bartender was watching soap operas. They ordered nachos and margaritas and discussed their dream jobs. Marybethâs idea of a great way to earn money had something to do with clothes and glamorous people. No, she didnât want to be a model, but she wouldnât mind working on commercials. Marco confided that he had always wanted to be a deep-sea diver, then blushed, knowing this was a lie. He was terrified of the ocean. Like jumping from an airplane, deep-sea diving was something he liked to watch in movies but had no desire to try himself. Iâm talking her up, Marco thought. Iâm talking up my best friendâs wife.
âIâve always hated swimming,â Marybeth said. âBecause of my toes. I was afraid that people would look at me and think I was a duck or something.â She did not tell him about the fourth-graders on the playground, but he said he understood how cruel people could be.
He asked if he could see her foot and she said no, but after a third round of margaritas, when her tongue was heavy with salt, she pulled off her too-big sandalâthe one she bought for sixty-nine cents at the drugstoreâand pulled her knee up to the table. Marco leaned across the booth to have a look, and his right hand knocked the margarita into her lap. The blended drink was cold against her bare legs; she let out a short screech. Marco apologized and went up to the bar for some rags to clean it up.
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