The Easy Way Out

4

They decided to meet for lunch at Barney's Deli, a strong contender for the best sandwiches in the city. Blake arrived early and saved a table.

Behind the counter, a silver-haired workhorse of a man and an intense young guy sporting an eyebrow ring took orders and made sandwiches, slicing meats and cheeses, hacking through fresh loaves of rye and Italian bread in the process. Barney's wasn't one of those assembly line sandwich franchises that spend more money on TV ads than on their discount cold cuts and processed bread. Barney's was an old-school, non-pretentious sandwich shop serving slow- roasted poultry and mouth-watering brisket hot off the grill.

But savory sandwiches weren't on Blake's mind. The thought of seeing Rachel again outside of Booty's, practically made him sick with anticipation.

At a nearby table, a guy with bulging cheeks, wearing a polyester shirt, fixated on his phone in one hand gripping a half sandwich with the other. He ate like he had only ten minutes to live.

When three men in line at the counter all turned their heads toward the door in unison, Blake knew Rachel had arrived. He watched her approach, her lips parting, mouthing, "Hi." He rose to his shaky feet, his basic motor skills still intact. She filled his eyes, the rest of the world fading away.

"You hungry?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Yeah, me, too. Get me a turkey club, light on the mayo." She pulled out a chair and sat. I'll save our seats."

Blake walked to the end of the line wishing he could recall just one of the clever remarks he'd prepared earlier in the day but words failed him. So he smiled at her, abandoning any pretense of subtlety.

When she unzipped her jacket and began pulling her arms out of the sleeves, Blake could have sold tickets to the gawkers. A kangaroo could have hopped through the front door wearing a purple turban and these guys would have never noticed.

Following their lunch date, he steered to the curb in front of her apartment building. She pushed the hair from her forehead and said, "I thought it was going to happen when we left the deli. Then I thought it was probably going to happen when we got into your car. So maybe--"

He clasped her face between his hands and drew her into a kiss, the kiss he'd been thinking about for weeks. With fistfuls of his shirt, she drew him closer, pressing her mouth to his with an intensity bordering on desperation, her hands spread open climbing his back. It was the kind of kiss that made you believe in transcendence like anything and everything was possible. They made out passionately in broad daylight, tuning out the pedestrians who walked by, gawking and giving disapproving looks. 

A week later, she was in his bed. The measured rotation of her hips made him dizzy, her hot breath tasted primal, raw. His fingertips pressed into her firm flesh. She traced a path with the tip of her tongue from his neck down to his chest. Uninhibited, she maneuvered, legs hooking him, her blazing eyes open and receptive. He grinned with the acknowledgment that he was lost in the tangled landscape of his own sheets. The bed creaked, the ceiling bent sideways, and a muffled groan slipped from his throat. He leaned against the headboard, face flushed and out of breath with Rachel nipping at his neck.

The weekend found them in Blake's apartment, lying naked on the couch, intertwined, their eyes glazed with spent passion. Take-out containers and beer bottles lining the coffee table partially obscured their view of the television. He held her hand and tenderly kissed the tiny heart tattoo at the base of Rachel's thumb.

Two weeks later, Blake sat on the edge of his bed watching her transfer clothes from an overnight bag into his dresser drawers.

Feeling his eyes, she turned to him. "What?"

"Just happy. That's all."

Her shoulders sagged. "You think we're moving too fast?"

"What? No." He got off the bed, then threw his arms around her. He kissed her tenderly. "No. This feels right. Don't you think?"

She nodded, eyes down.

"I never felt more sure of anything in my whole life."

She raised her eyes, a smile forming before his lips landed.

Each night, he fought sleep fearing that when he woke in the morning, cold, hard, brutal reality would hit him like a bucket of frozen bricks. He'd find himself in bed alone. There'd be no hairbrush, makeup, no extra toothbrush in the bathroom, no bras, and panties in the top drawer of the bedroom dresser. The fantasy of cohabitating with the most amazing woman he'd ever seen would evaporate.

How could he possibly be so lucky? It didn't fit the pattern but maybe his fortunes had changed. Maybe he was due. Whatever it was, a quirky alignment of stars, an unexpected tilt of the planet, a burst of positive vibrations from the universe, he was grateful. Sure, his job search had been futile, and his bank account was dwindling, but with Rachel, life was good. Really good. Nothing else mattered.

Saturday afternoon, with grocery bags in their arms, Blake and Rachel walked shoulder-to-shoulder down the hallway toward their apartment. He searched his pockets for his keys when a piercing voice rang out from the end of the hall.

"Mister Gannon. Blake Gannon," she called.

Mrs. Caputo, a straggly forty-something woman draped in a dingy house dress, rushed them, glowering at Rachel.

"Your check. It didn't clear." Her mousey eyes shifted from Blake to Rachel and back again. "So, there's gonna be a late fee. You know that, right?" She crossed her arms tightly, her jaw shifting like her dentures were slipping.

Blake shoved his key into the door lock. "I'll call the bank in the--"

"--Gonna be a late fee," she snapped, scurrying away.

Dripping with sarcasm, Rachel said, "She seems nice."

########

Seven-year-old Ashley drew the covers up under her chin. She couldn't sleep, not with her mom and dad arguing again in the adjoining room. Their voices started out low but the lid had blown off, the man barely sounding like her father. She watched the shadows breaking the bar of yellow light seeping in from beneath her bedroom door.

"Good gosh a'mighty! Whaddyou take me for, Faye? A man does not go around givin' fancy, expensive jewelry to a woman who ain't even his wife! 'less she's earned it on her back or down on her knees."

"You watch your tongue, Merrill."

"Seems I'd better watch your tongue, you common tramp!"

"I will not be talked to in that manner."

Ashley cringed when she heard a commotion and then her mother yelping.

"Take your hands offa me! I'll call the police. You know I will."

"God damn you, Faye."

"All this ruckus over some silly old trinket... Where you going?"

"Figure it out."

Ashley heard the front door slam and then her mom calling after him. "Merrill! Merrill," followed by the sound of the car starting and taking off like a rocket.

Ashley crept into the kitchen and found her mother, a fetching, voluptuous woman, daintily dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. A fluorescent bulb hummed above a half-submerged stack of dishes in the sink.

Faye noticed her daughter and gave a soft smile that didn't match her smudged eyes. "Aw, did we wake you, Sugar?" She gripped her hankie with red lacquered fingernails.

"He's mad about the necklace, ain't he?"

Faye fingered the bejeweled necklace at her throat.

Ashley added, "Sure is pretty."

"Just on account of your daddy can't afford it, don't mean I should be deprived. If I want it." She knelt and kissed Ashley's forehead. "Men like to give things to a pretty lady," she said softly. "It makes them feel... well, powerful, I suppose." 

Ashley rested her head on her Mom's breast. "Momma, am I gonna be pretty when I grow up?"

Taking Ashley's face in her hands, Faye said, "I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if you were to become a movie star."