Free Faking Life by Jason Pinter Page B

dirtier by the day and the glue holding the pages together wouldn't last another month. Not that he had a choice. Buying a back issue would probably cost more than Paul was paid for the original story.
    Esther finally looked up. She took a look at the magazine's cover and her eyes glimmered with recognition.
    “Would you sign it for me? To John Gillis. That'd be swell.”
    Paul obliged and signed his name on page 34.
    “Paul Shrader,” Esther said. Their heads both snapped to attention. She clicked her tongue as her eyes flickered, searching her memory banks
    “Yeah?” Paul said, a hint of confusion on his face.
    “Paul Shrader. That's West Marion Quarterly . Must be Volume nine, issue thirty-seven. The one with the purple dog on front.” John turned the cover, and sure enough, there was the dog in all of its smudged purple glory. He'd never noticed it before.
    Paul looked dumbfounded. “How did you…”
    “I read a lot,” Esther said, taking a sip, looking away.
    “Huh.”
    They both leaned back, stunned. In the thirty-three times they'd done this charade they'd seen every response imaginable. The only thing they'd never seen, never even thought they'd see, was someone who'd actually heard of Paul.
    “Here,” John said, handing back the ten Esther had given him for the refill. “This one's on the house.”
    “What for?”
    “Just cuz,” he said. She shrugged and stuffed the bill into her purse.
    “It's great that you read so much,” Paul piped in. “Too many people don't give due diligence to great literature. Too busy in front of the T.V. or on the Stairmaster. Myself,” he said, pinching his almost-trim belly, “I don't have to deal with that problem.”
    “No, it doesn't appear that you do.” She looked at John. She raised her eyebrows. “Do you have that problem?”
    “Let's see,” he said, lifting up his black t-shirt, revealing abdominals that were once chiseled granite, now finely sculpted Play-Doh. All things considered, they were still well above average on the bartender fitness scale.
    “Impressive,” she said. “I guess bartending keeps one in better shape than writing.” Paul scowled. John laughed.
    “Actually I'm a the starting quarterback for the Giants. This is my day job.” She smiled. Her teeth looked genuine, a nice touch. He'd seen more caps in his tenure than any dentist in the city. Esther looked completely natural, hair didn't seem to be dyed, a slight air of fruity perfume. Not the kind women slathered on like soap that made him nauseous. She looked down, humbly, as if afraid to let her emotions show.
    “Ahem,” Paul said, drawing irate looks from Esther and John. “So you've heard of me?”
    “I've heard of a lot of writers.”
    “Ah,” he responded, eyebrows furrowed. To John's dismay, Esther checked her watch. He was hoping his charm would have caused her to lose all concept of time, but alas, she was a working girl, probably stopping in for a quick drink on her way home. Just once, he was hoping to meet someone who didn't the outside world tugging at them 24/7. Maybe one of these days he'd find a nice homeless girl.
    “Well it's been swell, but I think I should be heading home.” She gathered up her pocketbook and flipped her hair back. John watched the light from the ceiling fixture flicker off her hair, sparkles dancing in her eyes like dimes in a jar. He was mesmerized. A lump rose in his throat. He didn't want her to leave.
    ” Just one drink? Don't tell me,” he said. “You've got a plant to feed.” Esther paused. Her face turned sorrowful, as though her decision to leave was forced. She ran her finger along the top of the bar. John's smile faded.
    “Actually I've got to. I just…I need to go. No plants, no cats. No, no cats. I don't have any pets…I just have to go.”
    “What, no hug goodbye?” Paul said incredulously.
    “It was nice to meet you John. You too Paul, keep on writing, I'm sure I'll see your stuff somewhere again.” John wasn't