Free The Easy Way Out by Stephen McCauley Page A

waistlines. The result was oddly, almost disconcertingly sensual, as if she were the manifestation of natural appetites and others the product of self-denial and some puritanical persecution of the flesh. Still, she smoked far too much and often seemed winded when, as now, she walked too far too quickly. It was obvious she was stopping to catch her breath, not adjust the straps on her beloved sandals.
    When we got to the sandwich shop, I held the door open for her, and she swept into the place in the loud way she had of entering rooms. She was barely inside before she was pulling her poncho over her head, shaking out her curtain of dark hair, and dramatically proclaiming that she was about to pass out from hunger. There were no other customers, but the owners, a couple of swarthy, quarrelsome brothers, looked up from their newspapers as if they’d been simultaneously jabbed with pins. The younger of the two, an astonishingly handsome man in a rugged, potbellied sort of way, immediately began to make eyes at Sharon. There were two types of men who were particularly drawn to Sharon: wiry, energetic hippies withtangled hair who wanted to be mothered by her, and dark Mediterranean men with piercing eyes who had something else entirely in mind.
    The shop was a filthy little place, with fluorescent lights and dreary blue walls encrusted with layers of grease and cigarette smoke. I often had lunch there; the food was acceptable and the prices were amazingly low. Neither of the brothers had ever acknowledged me, but now, seconds after we walked in the door, they were fighting over the privilege of making Sharon’s sandwich, advising her on whether to have french fries or onion rings, and calling her “babe” and “angel.” Both terms struck me as inappropriate.
    â€œDon’t listen to him, angel,” the younger, handsome one said. “He’ll help your friend. I’ll tell you what you want.”
    â€œBelieve me,” Sharon told him, “I never have any trouble figuring out what I want.”
    â€œI like the sound of that. What did you have in mind?”
    â€œLunch,” she said, flirtatiously bored.
    â€œLunch is a great place to start. I’ll tell you what you want to have.”
    â€œHow about this: I’ll tell you what I want, and you tell me if you know how to make it. After I’ve tasted it, I’ll tell you if you were right or not.”
    The younger one jabbed his brother with his elbow. “You see,” he said. “I like this. She knows what she wants. That’s good.”
    â€œDon’t get carried away,” Sharon said. “I know what you want, too, so let’s just get to the meal.”
    *   *   *
    We took our food to a table by the storefront window, and I watched as Sharon bit into her sandwich. Her sparring with the handsome brother had resulted in a grilled meat special. The grease from the steak and the cheese was soaking through the bread in an appealing stain. I had a dry tuna sandwich that looked anemic by comparison.
    â€œOh, God, this is good,” she said, shaking her fingers out as if she couldn’t contain her pleasure. Sharon’s enthusiasm for the things she liked—good food, all travel, poker, and Jeopardy —was one of her most endearing qualities. I tend to withhold enthusiasm, for fear of having the things I really care about taken from me.
    â€œI think he’d be happy to cook for you anytime.”
    â€œSure, as long as his wife’s out of town. I know the type, and I’m not impressed. Believe me, Patrick, I am not impressed at all.” Shetook a great swallow of orange soda. “So you want me to tell you what I think about this garbage with that fascist brother of yours? I’ll tell you, but remember you asked. Stay away from it.”
    Sharon was not known for her laissez-faire attitudes toward others, and I was disappointed by her response. “But,