“Seriously? No wonder this fiction! Who’s going to be turned on by a fat chick?”
The temperature in the room seems to drop. I guess when a group of thirty women all decide you’ve said something stupid, it has a physical manifestation?
Brett, of course, plows on without noticing. “I mean, from what you’re all saying, this dude is loaded. Bro — you can literally have any woman you want! Why would you fuck the fatty?”
There are a few seconds of absolute silence, in which all of the women appear completely mortified. The younger participants are glaring at him.I knew he didn’t read the fucking book. I swear to all the gods, if these women attack him en masse, I’m letting them and damn the consequences. I mean, I’ll probably call the cops eventually, but I’d definitely let it go for a while first.
Before I can decide if I should reprimand him or not, Alice, the happy matron of our troupe at the ever young age of eighty-six, speaks up. “Which explains whyyou’rehere with a bunch of old biddies instead of out with some pretty young girl. No one likes a tool, young man.”
I choke on the water I was sipping as the other women lose it.
Alice looks at me. “What? Did I use the word wrong? My grandkids influence, you understand…”
I want to hug her. “No, Alice. You used it perfectly.” I beam at her.
Brett, wisely, says nothing as his cheeks fill with red hot embarrassment and he slouches down in his seat, muttering softly to himself. Good. Let him sulk.
The women go back to discussing their thoughts, almost all positive. They enjoyed the dedication, rave over the book boyfriend. As they move on to discussing the spicy scenes in depth, I notice Brett appears more and more uncomfortable. He mutters something about female climaxes being a myth, but I choose to ignore it. I’m choosing my battles.
Reminding myself that his discomfort is not my problem, I continue leading the group. He brought all of this on himself and none of these women are inclined to even attempt to draw him back into the conversation after he showed his ass so completely. I see a few of the oldest patrons glancing at him and giggling. He’s never going to live down his fatphobic comments or the fact that he was just put in his place by a little old lady who doesn’t even come up to his shoulder.
Following the formal discussion, many of the women leave immediately, but a few stragglers always hang around to chat and finish their coffee. I hardly mind. The bookshop is my favorite place in the world and I enjoy their company. I scan who’s left and don’t see Brett so Iguess he bailed with the rest of the group. Thank the gods.
I gather up the coffee cups and general debris. Not that there was a lot of trash; groups of women tend to clean up after themselves, in my very limited experience. Knowing that the rest of this shouldn’t take long, I cart everything to the back. Annemarie not only bakes like an angel, she is a drill sergeant about the state of her kitchen and everything is meticulously clean and organized. She will kill me dead if I don’t get these dishes done and tidied up. It will never be up to her weirdly militant standard, but I’m hoping that she will be pleased with my attempts and not hurt me.
I turn a playlist on while the sink fills with bubbles and water. The window over the sink shows the last rays of the sunset. Before long, I lose myself in the homeiness of the chore. There’s something about the warm water, the bubbles, the progress and being able to zone out looking out the window that’s wonderfully domestic and oddly relaxing. If only I could turn this feeling on when it comes to cleaning my apartment.
When I hear the bell over the front door sing, I assume it’s announcing that one of the members has forgotten something. Instead, it’s Annemarie who comes barreling in in her customary whirl of perfume, skirts and scarves. She throws one arm around my shoulders and squeezes. I love her free spirit and her hippie style. Studying her now, I note she’s dressed for a date in a multi-layered maxi skirt, a black tank top that shows off yoga toned arms and her girls, nicely. Probably a dozen necklaces, at least. She uses a hand (with a ring on every finger, natch) to push her mass of copper curls out of her green eyes. She has the face of a pixie, the mind of asailor, and the sunniest outlook of anyone I’ve ever met. She’s also my best friend.
“You’re on clean up tonight?”
“Bits had a date,” I reply with a shrug. She has a date. Anne has a date. Everyone has a datebutme.
Annemarie brings me back to the present. “Do you want to come out with Steve and me? We were going to check out the new place that opened last month.”
“And be a third wheel on your date? Hard pass.”But the fact that she would totally tank this date if I wanted to hang is one more reason I love her.
“You know, you could invite someone to comewithyou and then you wouldn’t be a third wheel. We could double!”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea tonight and unless I’m going to finally buckle and throw Brett a pity fuck, there’s no one I’d call. Besides, I need to finish cleaning up this mess so you don’t kill me. My book needs my attention. And you know that the group of Betsys is a lot.”
“What happened with Brett? He was at the meeting? I didn’t think he could read. Also… what does one call a group of Betsys?” she ponders.
I smile at her. “That’s what I was thinking, but I was nice enough to not vocalize my thoughts. And, of course, we call it a terror.”
“You clearly deserve a treat for your restraint.”
“I really do. I have amazing restraint.”
“So what happened?”
“He showed up, having not read the book–”
“Of-fucking-course he didn’t!” she interrupts.
“On brand, I agree. He makes a fat phobic comment…” I fill her in on the rest of the evening, including Alice’s epic take down and her correct use of the word “tool.”
Annemarie throws her head back and laughs. “I do dearly love Miss Alice.” She pauses, studying my face as I continue to wash the dishes. “Is that all that happened? Did you really manage to have an interaction without him being … so Brett like?”
