by Bill Tope
She opened the door, then stopped. “Hi,
Mark,” she greeted the lead singer of the
band she’d heard two nights ago at the
tavern. Why was he here?
She had been introduced to him that
evening, but he hadn’t seemed particularly
taken with her; she had perceived no
chemistry between the two of them, on
either side. He had seemed too taken
with himself by half, she thought.
She opened the door wider. He stepped
inside. “Uh,” she said, “what’s happening?”
His face was a picture of studied indifference.
“Thought I’d check you out,” he muttered.
She blinked. “Check me out?” she repeated.
“I don’t know what you mean?” He looked
haughty, she thought, even disdainful.
He scowled, “We’re on a break from
band practice,” he told her as if that
explained everything. Finally she asked
him, “What is it you want, Mark? Why are
you here?” She felt clueless.
“You know why I’m here,” he asserted
wolfishly. “Band practice ain’t goin’ good,
so I thought I’d stop by and bone you.” He
grinned smugly. “Oh, Mark,” she said
sardonically, “you make it sound like such
a sweet, loving, meaningful experience.
Really earth-shaking,” she concluded,
rolling her eyes. He frowned.
“Look, Elaine,” he said impatiently, “I didn’t
come here to be…” She interrupted him to
say, “Elaine! My name is Molly!” This
brought him up short. “Before you ‘bone’ me,
would it be asking too much to get my name
right?” She glared at him defiantly.
He thought about that for a moment, then
asked, “Does this mean you won’t sleep
with me? “It does,” she said decisively.
“I got some smack,” he told her, trying to
sweeten the deal. “I am the lead singer,”
he asserted desperately.
“Nope.” But she sought to soften the blow:
“Mark,” she said, “Don’t feel bad.” He
stared at her. “I mean, despite the fact that I
won’t have sex with you, I want you to know
that you’ve met all my expectations.” He
grinned pompously. “I knew that,” he
said, then strutted back out the door.