Mister Perfect
Sandy (Sandra-Jane to her father when she was growing up and
he was not pleased) was eating supper alone. She didn’t entirely mind being
alone. Generally, men had been a disappointment in her life. Her mouth was full
of the focaccia that had come with her salad course, but she smiled anyway as
her active mind produced a triptych of association-memories. “A woman needs a
man like a fish needs a bicycle.” [Irina Dunn/Gloria Steinem]; “Men are just
carriers of bad jokes and flatulence.” [Scott Adams, Dilbert]; and “The
odds are good, but the goods are odd.” [Robert Masello, Blood and Ice].
Yes, that was worth a grin. It was even worth the small snort that threatened
to blow crumbs out her nose.
Speaking of men, there was an odd one right now, sitting in
profile in her field of view. He was also having his salad. He was certainly
taking his time. He would pick up his knife to slice things just so. Next, with
a small frown of intense concentration, he would dip his fork into a side of
dressing and impale first one item and then another in some kind of deliberate
construction until it was just right. Finally, lifting his salad-kabob
carefully past his lips he chewed in quiet contentment and distracted
contemplation before resuming the ceremony.
Sandy experienced an old and not-unwelcome warming as she
imagined him nibbling on her ear lobe and kissing the back of her neck with the
same kind of intensity he was committing to his food.
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