the habit of being

The Man with the Blue Shirt and Cigarettes walked up to my table at Wendy’s, where I was making a friendship bracelet from embroidery floss. I was dressed in my usual thin ragged hippy skirt and dirty red tank top. James was in the bathroom.

“Hey, do you need a job?”

“No, we’re just travelling, but thanks.”

“You need money?”

“We’re okay.”

“‘Cuz I could give you a job.”

I didn’t catch on. I didn’t want to be mean.

“What kind of a job?”

He sat down in James’ chair.

“It’ll just take fifteen minutes.”

“I’m not interested.”

Staring at the thread in my hands.

“I’ll give you $50.”

“I’m not interested.”

Staring at the floor.

I must’ve said it three times before he finally said OK and walked off.

James passed him on his way out, coming back from the bathroom.

“Don’t leave,” I told him, as soon as he reached the table.

* * *

A couple weeks into our relationship, I popped the question.

“So, how many women have you slept with, anyway?”

“I have no idea. Twenty, maybe?”

“Twenty?”

“Yeah, well, for a long time it was only one. But there was brief period afterwards when I had a lot of one-night things.”

“I’ve only slept with five people.”

“That’s five more than I had when I was your age.”

“Good point.”