Page 10 of Woman on the Verge

Her hands are in her lap, and she fiddles with her wedding ring. Should she take it off? The thought of it gives her a thrill. She could pretend, just for tonight, to be single and spontaneous and alive. On nights other than this night, she is married and boring and dead inside.

“I’m not,” she says.

She knows he is from around here because he mentioned, when introducing himself, that this bar is his usual spot.

“I’ve been in town for a couple weekends. Visiting family,” she says.

His smile makes her think of the wordgenial. What a strange word—genial. One letter away fromgenital.

“Where you from?” he asks.

She does it. She slips off her wedding ring and drops it in the inner pocket of her purse. Then she brings her hands to the bar. If she’s not mistaken, he glances at the all-important finger.

“Los Angeles,” she says.

“And what do you do in Los Angeles?”

What do people do in Los Angeles?

“I work for a production company.”

“Fancy,” he says.

That’s what she was going for—fancy.

“And you live around here?” she asks.

“I do. My apartment’s just a few blocks away.”

Is it just her, or did he say that with a certain twinkle in his eye? Would he invite her back to his apartment? She wouldn’t go if he did, but it would be nice to be asked.

“And what do you do?”

She hates that question, but he asked it first, so the reciprocation is only natural. She remembers hearing somewhere that nobody asks that question in Europe. Ask a European what they do, and they will likely list their daily activities and hobbies. Only in America is your career equivalent to who you are.

He takes a long pull on his beer. It’s already halfway gone. She is nursing her drink because she is a lightweight, especially when it comes to whiskey. She doesn’t drink it at home, ever. There is the occasional glass of wine from a $9.99 zinfandel purchased at Trader Joe’s. That is her life.

“I’m a paralegal for now, hoping to be a civil rights attorney,” he says. “I just took the bar, actually.”

“Well,” she says. “Fancy.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I’m impressed,” she adds.

“That’s premature. We don’t know if I passed yet.”

We.As if they are already an item.

He finishes his beer. Within three seconds of his placing his empty glass on the bar, the bartender is there to collect it and ask if he wants another. He does.

“How long till you get the results?”

“A couple months,” he says.

She keeps staring at his lips, then scolding herself for staring. She can’t help but wonder what it would be like to kiss him. She really has no business wondering this. It’s just that he’s nothing like the other guys she’s been with before, bland white guys with sandy-blond hair and light eyes and aspirations for a 401(k) and a house in suburbia.

“You seem young to take the bar,” she says, fishing for his age. It’s obvious he’s younger than her, but she’s not sure by how much.

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