Page 41 of You Had Me at Hockey

In response to emotion.

An infant’s cry is a puny call for help.

A teardrop is feminine.

It is weakness. It is suffering and sorrow.

I am weeping like the heavens.

Nature’s semen soaks the earth so plants can grow.

But my tears are barren.

Above all, a tear is a tear

For if everything is symbolic, everything would mean everything and nothing.”

He bows his head.

I start to applaud, but after a couple of claps I realize nobody else is. Everyone in the place turns, their gazes burning into me.

“You’re supposed to wait until he’s finished,” Sara whispers to me.

“I thought he was,” I whisper back, heat rising from the collar of my shirt into my face.

“Finishesallhis poems.”

“Oh. Uh. Sorry.” Jesus. What the hell do I know? I slump down in my seat.

I do know I could have written a better poem than that. “Nature’s Semen”? Come on!

The man begins his next poem, “Poetry Sucks.” The crowd makes noises of appreciation, low “Mmmm” sounds, but holds off the applause until he’s finished all his poems. Then they jump up and clap enthusiastically.

Meanwhile, I’ve guzzled my whole beer. And I definitely need another one if we’re staying for more.

Is Sara enjoying this? I don’t want to be judgy, but if this is her kind of entertainment, I’m not sure there’s much point in us seeing each other again. The only poem I can remember is “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Okay, I know a couple of others, but I don’t think the people here would appreciate them.

We order another round of beers and Sara shifts in her chair next to me to look into my eyes. “Maybe I just don’t get good poetry,” she whispers. “But that seemed god-awful to me.”

My lips twitch. “Really? I’m kind of fascinated by ‘Nature’s Semen.’ ”

She snickers and ducks her head. “We don’t have to stay.”

“We just ordered another beer. I deserve that beer for sitting through this.”

“Agree. You totally do.”

“I’m ready for the next act. I bet we’re going to hear about the wonders of farts.”

She chokes laughing, falling against my shoulder. “Oh God, I hope so.”

Tension releases from my body and I lean my head against hers, both of us hiding our smiles.

I was wrong. It’s not farts. It’s borborygmus. Which is pretty damn close.

“When your stomach rumbles at Christmas,

It’s borborygmus.

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