Free Losing It by Emma Rathbone Page A

“Julia Greenfield.”
    I nodded. Took a sip of my wine.
    â€œTell me about yourself,” he said. “Tell me three things. That’s right—I went to a job interview the other day. The guy said, ‘Tell me three things about yourself, or, describe yourself in three words!’ I said”—he started counting things off with his fingers—“I’m loyal, I’m a people person, I get along with just about anyone, that’s true, I’m really friendly, and I’m also punctual. I could have punched myself. ‘Punctual’? What a knucklehead.”
    â€œWell, also you said four things,” I said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLoyal, a people person, friendly, punctual.”
    I had meant to say it in a joking way.
    â€œI guess you’re right,” he said.
    He looked bleakly out the window. His face had fallen. On the street, a man wearing a sandwich board with stars and stripes on it walked by. Bill played with the sodden paper coaster under hiswater. This was terrible. How had this happened? Why had I said that? What was going on here?
    The waiter came and took our orders.
    I had to get back—I sensed there was some sunny territory just above us on which we could connect. I had to change my whole bearing, ramp it up to match him.
    â€œI’ve been asked that, too,” I said, laughing. “On a job interview. It’s so stupid. No one tells the truth. I mean, what are you supposed to say, ‘I’m obsessed with spreadsheets!’”
    â€œMy mother,” he said. “She’s a great lady, a really great lady. But she’s a handful. I was— We were at her house, trying to fit a sofa through the doorway. It’s at one of the new places, out there up Route 29? Really nice, and she keeps saying, ‘It fit through the breezeway at Delmarva! It fit through the breezeway at Delmarva!’ And there we are, with this huge green sofa, stuck in the door. I was like, ‘Mom!’” He put his hands up in a helpless gesture. “‘Mom! What am I?’” He shook his head in disbelief. “‘What am I?’”
    He looked at me for a reaction. I cleared my throat. “Yeah,” I said. “So, are you close with your mother?”
    â€œYeah,” he said glumly. “I would say so.”
    Next to us were a couple of lawyer types, working on a case, fountain pens poised, the lady’s hair tied back in a classy French twist. I watched as she flung her head back and laughed, and the man looked hungrily at her neck.
    â€œDoes she live around here?” I asked. “Your mom?”
    â€œEmmitsville.”
    â€œOh, that’s not far from where I’m staying, with my aunt.”
    â€œYou live in Emmitsville?” he said.
    â€œWell, between here and there.”
    â€œIsn’t that where the new drive-in theater is?” He was flipping a coaster over and over in his hand.
    â€œOh, really?” I said. “That would be cool. I haven’t heard of it.”
    We picked over a few more topics of regional interest and then our food came. I kept trying to decide if he was handsome or not. He had dark blond hair that was swept back with a fair amount of gel, and there was something about him that suggested a high-school heartthrob gone out to seed, or a golden young actor past his prime. He was good-looking, I decided, but it was also as if the surface of his face had become unmoored and drifted ever so slightly off-center. Still, he had a kind of antic warmth. I imagined us in a cabin, or a room with wood paneling, in bed, and he’s propped up on his elbow and walking his fingers up my chest. Then he maniacally kicks off the sheets and decides to make a crazy omelet. Then he’s goofing around in the kitchen with a skillet on his head and we’re both in stitches. I was starting to be able to see it, the way it would be with him, everything hilarious and