No sooner had they settled in the booth then chips and salsa were freshly laid, followed quickly by a Negro Modelo, a Bohemia, and two gargantuan margaritas. And no sooner had they clicked beer bottles then first Shiva and then Mary were approached and greeted by smiling, well-mannered exes.
Shiva’s was tall and wiry, hair as wild as her own, a copy of Der G in one hand, tiny doggie bag in the other. Smiles, handshakes. How’s the recording going? Who told you? L, who else. And how’s Angie (the new one). She’s visiting her sister in Nevada, she’ll be gone ALL month. Well, good to see you. Yeah, great to see you. Take care. Later.
Mary’s ex was a caution-to-the-wind tone poem from the slow motion days of her marriage crashing itself to pieces on the rocks. When Mary had told this particular ex that they’d have no future he tried to argue but horniness got the better of him and he made the most of their twenty-seven days together (27 days, 27 nights, including the odd blackouts) before she went mysterious female and booted him from the seraglio.
He’s bright, deliberately unshaven, strongly cologned. How’s your cat, your band? Both are grumpy these days. Have you seen the Kurosawa at Greenway? No, is it good? I haven’t seen it, I was wondering. Maybe, life is pretty crazy these days. Maybe’s good, maybe’s not no. So, good to see you. And you.
When they were alone again they concentrated on their menus before Shiva lowered hers, ducked her head forward and stage-whispered:
-He was cute! I’ll trade ya!
They both laughed and Mary wrinkled her nose, shrugged all spider-twitchy.
-What? Shiva asked, is he a weirdo?
The waitress came, took their orders, went away again.
Shiva tilted bottle to lips, disdaining the frosted mug, waited for Mary to unbosom the nasty details.
-It was like going to the dentist. I always felt like I should be wearing a bib.
-Splahhgb! Shiva fluttered her hand, covering her mouth, forcing herself to swallow so beer wouldn’t shoot out her nose.
-You mean …?
She opened her mouth and made a fist before it, miming the universal sign for fellatio.
-No, Mary laughed, I meant he was a sloppy kisser. Saliva everywhere. Like frenching a Saint Bernard.
-Wow. Okay, thanks for the warning. Guess I’ll have to stick to L. Oh! I love this song!
Thus far Mary had successfully tuned out the anodyne noise of the patio’s entertainment, which appeared to be Grizzly Adams and a banjo. Shiva was singing along, sexy and sweet, to his version of ‘Scarborough Fair’.
-Really? Mary asked, you like this?
Shiva opened her eyes.
-Mary, Mary, Mary. It’s the song, not the singer. And I love this song, shit yeah. The guy singing it sucks but that’s the sign of a really great song. It can’t be ruined.
-Uh yeah, it can. Anyway, what about that guy who came by before. What’s his story?
-Max? Oh, Max is crazy. L still hates him. Only he can’t show it cause Max shows up at all our gigs and is always like ‘hey, man’ to L, all groovy and nice like they’re best friends. It’s pretty funny.
-Does L hate all the Ones Who Came Before?
-Probably. But Max is special. It’s my fault though because I just happened to make a comparison …
-Oh oh.
-Yeah, I know. It was right after L and I had finished making love one time and he’d made me come so I was happy and sort of playing with his dick and telling him how it was the perfect size and our bodies were a perfect fit and then it just sort of slipped out that Max is hung like a horse, I mean fucking fantasy huge!
The food arrived, enormous white platters of refried beans, pico de gallo, guacamole, and carnitas suffocated in white cheese. Hot plate, the waitress said and Mary and Shiva shied their fingers along the edges like kids testing for pain.
-And how, Mary asked, does something like that just slip out? I mean, you know how goofy guys can be when it comes to cock size.
-I do now. It was supposed to be a compliment. I was letting him know that it was nice that we could be so spontaneous, where with Max I needed more prep. We used to go through K-Y like it was salted peanuts! My explanation didn’t help though, and that’s why he hates Max. Jesus, I’m starving.
They ate and talked sex, deconstructing encounters, techniques, likes, dislikes, the anecdotal bizarrerie of promiscuous early worms. Mary kept her end up acceptably well, she thought, trying to relax and not overthink or pre-analyze, or polish too much. Shiva was a font, a Niagara, a monsoon of opinionated likes and dislikes. Candle light versus klieg versus total tinfoil-over-windows darkness, camera versus mirror, chair versus coffee table versus piano bench versus kitchen counter, handcuffs versus reach-around, spit versus swallow versus free throw. She would periodically tilt her head in the direction of the patio to listen and comment. He kinda strums like a Campfire Girl, doesn’t he. ‘Blue’ usually makes me weepy but this version isn’t doing it. Come on baby, light my fire, try to set the night on … where’d they find this Gordon Lightweight?
Mary washed down the last cube of meat with tequila and arched her back till she felt a little nerve settle and pop then put her elbows on the table and leaned forward, stuffed and happy. Shiva smiled back and then reached her hand to Mary’s face, gentling her thumb at the very edge of Mary’s mouth. She moved her thumb till it was pressed against Mary’s lips.
-Just a little piece of gua-ca-mo-le.
Mary hid the startle and let her tongue barely slip between her lips till she felt the squishy bug of the a-vo-ca-do.
And Shiva doesn’t take her thumb away.
And Mary doesn’t retract her tongue.
And time freezes.