Sticky Singles
By Jennifer A. Swallow
After several dozen first dates over beer and mozzarella sticks—none of which had led to a second—I decided to change the format. I planned to meet a guy in the park for a midmorning stroll. No pressure. Just a walk and a chat. I told him we could meet at the fountain, and I’d be wearing a felt cowboy hat and Stockman boots. He responded that that was hot and he was looking forward to meeting in person.
When Byron strolled up, he looked just like his Tinder photos—floppy blonde hair and ears that stuck out cute far, not dorky far. Okay, maybe dorky far. He was slightly overweight but in a cute way, like a teddy bear. He was wearing a red t-shirt and blue jeans, like he said he would.
He circled the fountain—looking around—and his eyes skimmed over me. He stopped about twenty feet away and examined the crowd more carefully. I remained still, waiting for him to recognize me. I was dressed for work, so I didn’t exactly look like my profile photo, but when I washed the paint away I would. All my profile photos were taken in the last few months. I couldn’t stand meeting guys in person and realizing all their photos were five years old. It was immediately obvious, and their mumbled protests about not having any recent ones were a huge turnoff.
Byron’s eyes swept the space around me again, not seeming to register my presence, but then they flickered back and looked squarely into mine. I struggled to not blink. He stared. I stared back. Recognition loosened his squinted eyes, his scrunched forehead, his tightened mouth. When he took a step forward and asked “Kate?” I finally broke character.
“Yup, it’s me!” I stepped forward and held out my right hand, forgetting it was covered in gold body paint until he raised an eyebrow at it.
“Sorry. Job hazard.” I turned around and grabbed my saddle bag from the ground. It was also covered in gold paint on the outside and contained about forty dollars in ones and fives. “Theft is another hazard. Gotta be careful.”
“This is your job? Your artist job?” He scanned my outfit from top to bottom. In addition to the promised cowboy hat and boots, I wore a plaid shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps, a denim skirt held up by a leather belt with a large brass buckle, and gauntlet style gloves with leather fringe. Every inch of clothing and even my blonde, braided hair was coated with gold paint.
“Yes, well, no. I mean, I also sketch. Images of the Wild West—bison, Indians, wild horses, things like that.” I smiled. “But this living statue act brings in the easy money. You’d be surprised how many people are impressed by the simple ability to be still for a really long time. Of course, there are the shitheads who—”
“Yeah, okay, um, this—” he outlined my whole body with his hand flat, palm open toward me, “is not what I expected.” His tone was flat, and he put extra emphasis on not.
I paused and then said, “I thought it would be fun.” I twirled the end of the rope that was slung over my shoulder and grinned. I’d been certain meeting like this would make me intriguing, or memorable at the very least. Better than my standard too-tight jeans and low-cut blouse first date attire.
“What’s fun about this? I get to walk around the park with a cartoon?” He lowered his eyebrows.
I dropped the flirtatiousness from my tone. “I’m not a cartoon. I’m a living statue.”
“Which one of my friends put you up to this?”
“Put me up to what?”
“This! Pretend to be interested in me and then put on this crap and make a joke out of it.” His voice had gone up an octave and he gestured wildly with both hands at my whole body.
A woman stopped and watched us, and a family hurried their small children around the other side of the fountain.
I lowered my voice and spoke gently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you don’t want to have this date, please leave.”
“You bitch.” He shook his head at me. He pursed his lips to the size of a raspberry. Those ears, which were absolutely not cute now, glowed bright red.
“I don’t know what your problem is or what you think is happening, but we’re done here and you should go.”
He snorted, folded his arms across his chest, and jutted out his chin.
I stepped back a few paces and set my saddlebag down with the strap looped under my right heel. I hooked one thumb under my rope and the other in my waistband. Finally, I exhaled my abdomen into a position where I could take shallow breaths with almost no movement through my core and I relaxed my jaw and eyelids into a position that was easy to hold. Byron was barely visible in my periphery. But he was audible.
“Fucking cunt.”
And then I felt the spit.
Inside, I shuddered. Outside, I didn’t even blink. I remained immobile, just like I’d trained myself to when morally deficient parents encouraged their children to kick me to see if I’d flinch. My face was hot, but I didn’t think anyone could tell beneath the gold.
Byron left. I couldn’t see where he went without turning my head, which I didn’t want to do since a crowd had gathered. I was in character again, ready to earn sticky singles from cotton candy eating tourists from Nebraska or Missouri. But maybe out of appreciation for my composure, or out of pity, they’d put something extra in my saddlebag.
Jennifer A Swallow is known more for writing about cybersecurity than imaginary lives, but that doesn’t stop her from filling notebook after notebook with ideas. Her creative work has appeared in The Courtship of Winds and Adelaide Literary Magazine. She lives the life of a digital nomad and finds inspiration everywhere she goes. When inspiration is lacking, she runs up mountains until it comes back.
Photo credit: Pete Ashton via a Creative Commons license.
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