Read Online Love Stories in This Town by Amanda Eyre Ward - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amanda Eyre Ward
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said Margarita.
“I'm fine,” I said.
“Ah,” said Margarita, deciding to pick up the pace. “I see a man, a man for you.” I sighed. She pinched her eyelids shut and began to nod. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, now I can see it.” The old lady nodded approvingly, reaching for the pork rinds.
“What?” I said.
“You and this man,” she said. “You and this tall man. You will fall in love.”
In spite of myself, I became intrigued. Leo was tall, after all. Margarita was moving her arms around in front of her, making humming noises. Her T-shirt was tight across her chest; she wore no bra. She writhed around as if in rapture. Finally, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. After a moment, she dropped her hands to her lap and looked at me.
“Well?” I said.
“I see red,” she said. “Red, the color of roses.”
Hmmm. Well, if I press my eyelids, I see red too, but I took two fives from my pocket and gave them to her. She and the old lady bid me farewell and switched that TV right back on before I was even down the walkway. I could hear Montel pontificating all the way down the block.
On the way back to the office, I stopped at the Happy Mexican Gas Mart. There was a man talking on a cell phone behind the counter. Next to him, a thuggy teen ate a Dove bar, the ice cream melting down his wrist. Periodically, the man on the cell phone grabbed the Dove bar and took a bite.
I wandered the aisles of the Happy Mexican, looking for a pregnancy test. I thought about how I would tell my husband the news. I could take him out to dinner, and call for a toast to our baby. I could buy some cheesy Hallmark card, or hang a banner in our doorway. I could buy a tiny pair of shoes and wrap them up. Tiny sneakers? Tiny moccasins?
I decided that I would bring Dr. Zhong some flowers. Daisies, maybe, or lucky palm stalks. I would walk right past that unstable woman and her jars, and Dr. Zhong would light up at the sight of me, the mother-to-be.
I bought the test and a Snickers in the Happy Mexican. I ate the candy bar on the way back to the office, and the chocolate on my teeth was hot and wonderful. My headache almost went away. I decided to tell my husband in bed. I would pull the covers over our heads and whisper the news. He would hug me, and I would hear his breath become ragged.
Back in the office, the stray dog was chewing on my computer cord. It was a little black thing, with a tail that curled around like a pig. I took it into my arms, and it was just the right weight, and warm.
When an anorexic artist left the bathroom, I went inside. I opened the cardboard box and tried not to look at the blond woman smiling ear to ear on its cover, holding up her pregnancy test with a big plus sign, her wedding band flashing. I looked at my own wedding band—a silver one we had bought in Mexico. The directions seemed simple: pee on the stick, and wait.
The Russian men next door were yelling, and I unbuttoned my jeans. I closed my eyes and prayed, to what I don't know, to something. To Dr. Zhong. To Margarita. I unwrapped the plastic stick. But before I could begin, I looked down.
Just as Margarita had foreseen, my underwear was red as roses. I think I cried out, but there was no one there to listen. Everyone at Shakespeare.com had gathered in the conference room for the big announcement. When I came out of the bathroom, Betty told me the news. Seven million dollars of funding had come through, and Brendan had bought fifty boxes of Girl Scout cookies to celebrate. I ate Thin Mints for a while, and then I ate Tagalongs.
When I told Leo, over dinner, that I was only eating for one, he looked down quickly at the napkin in his lap. His eyelashes were long and dark—they shielded his eyes from me.
On Monday, Brendan sent an e-mail saying, “Dear Mimi, Please stop by my office at your convenience. Yours truly, Brendan.” I stood and walked the ten feet to where he sat behind a big IKEA desk. Brendan made a pyramid of his fingertips.
“I'm fine,” I said.
“Ah,” said Margarita, deciding to pick up the pace. “I see a man, a man for you.” I sighed. She pinched her eyelids shut and began to nod. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, now I can see it.” The old lady nodded approvingly, reaching for the pork rinds.
“What?” I said.
“You and this man,” she said. “You and this tall man. You will fall in love.”
In spite of myself, I became intrigued. Leo was tall, after all. Margarita was moving her arms around in front of her, making humming noises. Her T-shirt was tight across her chest; she wore no bra. She writhed around as if in rapture. Finally, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. After a moment, she dropped her hands to her lap and looked at me.
“Well?” I said.
“I see red,” she said. “Red, the color of roses.”
Hmmm. Well, if I press my eyelids, I see red too, but I took two fives from my pocket and gave them to her. She and the old lady bid me farewell and switched that TV right back on before I was even down the walkway. I could hear Montel pontificating all the way down the block.
On the way back to the office, I stopped at the Happy Mexican Gas Mart. There was a man talking on a cell phone behind the counter. Next to him, a thuggy teen ate a Dove bar, the ice cream melting down his wrist. Periodically, the man on the cell phone grabbed the Dove bar and took a bite.
I wandered the aisles of the Happy Mexican, looking for a pregnancy test. I thought about how I would tell my husband the news. I could take him out to dinner, and call for a toast to our baby. I could buy some cheesy Hallmark card, or hang a banner in our doorway. I could buy a tiny pair of shoes and wrap them up. Tiny sneakers? Tiny moccasins?
I decided that I would bring Dr. Zhong some flowers. Daisies, maybe, or lucky palm stalks. I would walk right past that unstable woman and her jars, and Dr. Zhong would light up at the sight of me, the mother-to-be.
I bought the test and a Snickers in the Happy Mexican. I ate the candy bar on the way back to the office, and the chocolate on my teeth was hot and wonderful. My headache almost went away. I decided to tell my husband in bed. I would pull the covers over our heads and whisper the news. He would hug me, and I would hear his breath become ragged.
Back in the office, the stray dog was chewing on my computer cord. It was a little black thing, with a tail that curled around like a pig. I took it into my arms, and it was just the right weight, and warm.
When an anorexic artist left the bathroom, I went inside. I opened the cardboard box and tried not to look at the blond woman smiling ear to ear on its cover, holding up her pregnancy test with a big plus sign, her wedding band flashing. I looked at my own wedding band—a silver one we had bought in Mexico. The directions seemed simple: pee on the stick, and wait.
The Russian men next door were yelling, and I unbuttoned my jeans. I closed my eyes and prayed, to what I don't know, to something. To Dr. Zhong. To Margarita. I unwrapped the plastic stick. But before I could begin, I looked down.
Just as Margarita had foreseen, my underwear was red as roses. I think I cried out, but there was no one there to listen. Everyone at Shakespeare.com had gathered in the conference room for the big announcement. When I came out of the bathroom, Betty told me the news. Seven million dollars of funding had come through, and Brendan had bought fifty boxes of Girl Scout cookies to celebrate. I ate Thin Mints for a while, and then I ate Tagalongs.
When I told Leo, over dinner, that I was only eating for one, he looked down quickly at the napkin in his lap. His eyelashes were long and dark—they shielded his eyes from me.
On Monday, Brendan sent an e-mail saying, “Dear Mimi, Please stop by my office at your convenience. Yours truly, Brendan.” I stood and walked the ten feet to where he sat behind a big IKEA desk. Brendan made a pyramid of his fingertips.
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