Read Online Man Camp by Adrienne Brodeur - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Adrienne Brodeur
Tags: Fiction
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wall, Martha remembers the rest of that saying:
Carpe diem . . . quam minimum credula postero.
“Put no trust in tomorrow.”
That’s reassuring,
she thinks, reaching for the lowest grips, her heart racing. She tries to calm herself by taking a few deep breaths. Why did she just sign a paper relieving Summit of any responsibility for accidental injury or death?
When she’s almost twenty feet up, feeling for the grips with her eyes closed, it occurs to her that at thirty-seven, she shouldn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to do on a date, let alone be suspended in a harness answering get-to-know-you questions. “I’ve had enough,” she calls down and releases her grip on the wall, trusting Bob not to let her fall.
“Awesome!” he says. “The first time is always the scariest.”
Martha says a silent Hail Mary and unfastens her rig. “That was actually my last time.”
Bob turns his palms upward. “Teachers only open doors, students must enter alone.”
Whatever,
Martha thinks, deciding to break her own rule and take charge of the date. “How about some meaningless patter over lattes?”
“That’d be cool, I guess.” He suggests a French café around the corner that has wonderful crêpes and coffee. On the walk over, he tells her he is a screenwriter and some of his best work has been done at this café. “Beth thinks the service is slow, but I like that it’s so authentically French.”
Mental note: Don’t talk so much about your ex-girlfriend.
The café is slightly dingy, more like someone’s living room than a restaurant, and the two surly waiters don’t seem happy to have guests. Martha and Bob sit in the corner on a frayed love seat where she squints to read the blackboard menu on the opposite wall. She orders a cappuccino and a
crêpe fromage
and Bob asks for “the usual,” black coffee.
“You’re not eating?”
“You know what Hemingway said of Cézanne’s pears?” Bob asks. “That they’re more beautiful on an empty stomach.” He’s quiet for a moment. “That’s how I want to live my life— appreciating the beauty around me. If it means skipping a meal or two to make the next taste better, so what? Of course, Beth thinks it’s because I’m cheap, but she just doesn’t get it.”
“Exactly how recent is your breakup?” Martha asks.
Bob leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. “If I were to be cynical, I’d say, ‘Which one?’ The truth is, we’ve been together on and off for ten years, but our most recent breakup seems more permanent. Beth’s changed since her promotion. Suddenly, she wants all this bourgeois crap: a two-bedroom apartment, a summer rental, security, blah, blah, blah. And she wants me to give up my dreams and go corporate, too. We just don’t fit anymore, like a donkey’s lips don’t fit onto a horse’s mouth.”
Martha cocks her head.
“Ancient Chinese expression.”
The waiter places their coffees on the table with a bored “Voilà.”
“Simply put, we’re too different. I like to live large,” he continues, opening his arms expansively. “When I die I want my friends to think, ‘Now there’s a guy who knew how to live.’ ”
Martha smiles behind the foam of her cappuccino.
“Anyway, I need to get back in the dating circuit, that’s all there is to it,” he says. “Beth says no woman will want a thirty-eight-year-old man with no prospects, but I say not all women are so superficial. Besides, I’ll have the last laugh when my movie’s made.”
“Don’t you think it might be a good idea to wait a little between relationships?” Martha asks, recalling her own experiences in the rebound department.
“Naw, I’m ready,” Bob says, pulling a thread on the sofa. “I need someone new, someone with positive energy.”
FRIDAY NIGHT — HANNIBAL
Martha is happy to stay at home with Hannibal on Valentine’s Day. It’s never been a favorite holiday of hers. Her best Valentine’s Day ever was
Carpe diem . . . quam minimum credula postero.
“Put no trust in tomorrow.”
That’s reassuring,
she thinks, reaching for the lowest grips, her heart racing. She tries to calm herself by taking a few deep breaths. Why did she just sign a paper relieving Summit of any responsibility for accidental injury or death?
When she’s almost twenty feet up, feeling for the grips with her eyes closed, it occurs to her that at thirty-seven, she shouldn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to do on a date, let alone be suspended in a harness answering get-to-know-you questions. “I’ve had enough,” she calls down and releases her grip on the wall, trusting Bob not to let her fall.
“Awesome!” he says. “The first time is always the scariest.”
Martha says a silent Hail Mary and unfastens her rig. “That was actually my last time.”
Bob turns his palms upward. “Teachers only open doors, students must enter alone.”
Whatever,
Martha thinks, deciding to break her own rule and take charge of the date. “How about some meaningless patter over lattes?”
“That’d be cool, I guess.” He suggests a French café around the corner that has wonderful crêpes and coffee. On the walk over, he tells her he is a screenwriter and some of his best work has been done at this café. “Beth thinks the service is slow, but I like that it’s so authentically French.”
Mental note: Don’t talk so much about your ex-girlfriend.
The café is slightly dingy, more like someone’s living room than a restaurant, and the two surly waiters don’t seem happy to have guests. Martha and Bob sit in the corner on a frayed love seat where she squints to read the blackboard menu on the opposite wall. She orders a cappuccino and a
crêpe fromage
and Bob asks for “the usual,” black coffee.
“You’re not eating?”
“You know what Hemingway said of Cézanne’s pears?” Bob asks. “That they’re more beautiful on an empty stomach.” He’s quiet for a moment. “That’s how I want to live my life— appreciating the beauty around me. If it means skipping a meal or two to make the next taste better, so what? Of course, Beth thinks it’s because I’m cheap, but she just doesn’t get it.”
“Exactly how recent is your breakup?” Martha asks.
Bob leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. “If I were to be cynical, I’d say, ‘Which one?’ The truth is, we’ve been together on and off for ten years, but our most recent breakup seems more permanent. Beth’s changed since her promotion. Suddenly, she wants all this bourgeois crap: a two-bedroom apartment, a summer rental, security, blah, blah, blah. And she wants me to give up my dreams and go corporate, too. We just don’t fit anymore, like a donkey’s lips don’t fit onto a horse’s mouth.”
Martha cocks her head.
“Ancient Chinese expression.”
The waiter places their coffees on the table with a bored “Voilà.”
“Simply put, we’re too different. I like to live large,” he continues, opening his arms expansively. “When I die I want my friends to think, ‘Now there’s a guy who knew how to live.’ ”
Martha smiles behind the foam of her cappuccino.
“Anyway, I need to get back in the dating circuit, that’s all there is to it,” he says. “Beth says no woman will want a thirty-eight-year-old man with no prospects, but I say not all women are so superficial. Besides, I’ll have the last laugh when my movie’s made.”
“Don’t you think it might be a good idea to wait a little between relationships?” Martha asks, recalling her own experiences in the rebound department.
“Naw, I’m ready,” Bob says, pulling a thread on the sofa. “I need someone new, someone with positive energy.”
FRIDAY NIGHT — HANNIBAL
Martha is happy to stay at home with Hannibal on Valentine’s Day. It’s never been a favorite holiday of hers. Her best Valentine’s Day ever was
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