Effing Nate

By Geoff Morris

Nate likes bikes. He works in a bike shop. He’s friends with Sarah.
Sarah likes art. She works in a data center. She’s friends with Nate.
Maxwell likes women. He doesn’t work. He wants to be "friends" with Sarah.
Nate likes Sarah, Sarah likes Maxwell, Maxwell likes... well, you know.

Nathan leads an aimless life after recently dropping out of college. His best friend Sarah is a talented, up-and-coming artist, well regarded in the Sacramento art scene. They share a cozy, platonic relationship just perfect enough that someone will come along and inevitably wreck it...

And that somebody is Maxwell, Nate’s former college roommate. Suave, sophisticated, and with a suspicious English accent, he’s everything that Nate is not. But Nate feels more for Sarah than he can say, and fears that Maxwell will break her heart.
Will Sarah fall for Maxwell’s accent and smooth intellect? Can Nate overcome his own demons and find some sort of peace? And will he finally tell Sarah just how much he loves her?

Effing Nate is a funny, lyrical ode to love triangles, rear triangles, and the Herpes Triangle, set in the understated river city that is Sacramento, California.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoff Morris
• Release date: Feb 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463866351

Geoff Morris

Geoff Morris lives in California.

Book preview

A drink's the thing to start a tale, as every living thing has its genesis in water, and a story breathes and pumps the blood as much as you or I, if told well enough.  A few draughts of hearty stout or shots of fire down the gullet, and the story pours out as the liquor pours in.  This place is bright and loud to be telling tales, too much neon, too many women laughing; I swear there's not a sound in the world so distracting as a woman's laugh.  I need a hole in the wall named Journey's End or The Who Cares Tavern, dark booths with faded, picked-at wallpaper and sticky tabletops, and waitresses who look like they've already given Charon his fare.  That's the place that fits my tale. I take that back.  Perhaps the insincerity of this place, the jaded hipness, that nasty self-assured look everyone has, barely concealing that all-consuming doubt about the very worthiness of existence, perhaps that is what fits this story best.  You want to sit a bit and hear this one?  It's a sordid tale, filled with betrayal and lust, plenty of the latter, but poetically told, if I do say so myself. 

Betrayal and lust, and love too.  I was in love, or as near as I've come to that all-encompassing embrace, the soul alight.  This girl, no, woman, I knew in a little town in the Central Valley, where they've got this big white building with a copper dome, and it’s said that is where decisions are made about how to run the state, and a few cows.  This woman, because that was what she was, not a girl, not even pretending, she was like a spark in the darkness... God, the everlasting bloody thorn of one terrible mistake.  Do you believe there's one woman out there, perfectly suited to you, and vice versa, a soul mate?  I never believed that, until this girl, I mean woman, well, what's in between?  Person, everyone should be a person without qualification if you can help it.

Sarah, that was her name, not so portentous as Persephone, or Dionysus, or Demetria, but Sarah fits just right, a name like a real treasure chest.  A plain wooden crate, disguised by the stains of time and travel, but overflowing with clunking doubloons and sanguineous rubies and glittering ropes of angel-wing gold.  And it's all my fault that she's not here to hold up a toast, to whatever new thing she's brought into being today.  Such prodigious talent, and I will admit most readily, a far greater genius than myself. Sarah's absent, and the porcine hulks of desperate men are filling in for seraphim.  God, just to take back that one mistake, which wouldn't have even been a mistake, except for that fucking Nate.  That little bastard, that ever-suffering coward, to him I say, Good riddance.

So, I'll tell you all about it, if you'll just start right here. It's a bit modern, in the telling, switching about between pro- and antagonist.  I'll let you decide who's cast as what.  There's Nathan, whom I met at a strange university in a strange town with a strange blindness to its own faults.  We shared a tiny closet of a dorm room, and an apartment later, but luckily, no women.  Once, I called him a friend.  There's Sarah, of course, I suspect the only woman I'll ever truly love, and I believe you'll come to feel some measure of the affection I felt for her.  And a whole ensemble, a real motley crew, some on skid row, more familiar with guns than roses, others sparking with success like a Tesla coil, some deaf to the prowling of fate's ruthless leopard, or oblivious to the great white of revenge.

Our tale begins with Nathan, and ends with him, as you’ll see, it must.

A Call, Rather Than A Nudge

The raw-throated shout of a crow brought Nathan Corbin to the reluctant, gritty edge of wakefulness.  A grumble, something slurred and perhaps profane, and he flipped again in his bed, trying to find a spot not yet dampened by his own sweat.  Not yet eight o’clock, and already the morning cool was being cooked away by a white summer sun.  That same white sun seeped in like dust beneath the window shade, a hot bar across his leg, reflecting red off his livid untanned skin, mingling discontentedly with the smoke-yellowed plaster above him, tan directly above the bed, and murky river brown as the ceiling curved down to the knobby frieze that made the border between above and below.  He noticed nothing of this, still serene and floating in the sweet, dark womb of sleep.

A long time later he woke more fully.  The fan buzzed contentedly in the single note it knew, G, and why he recalled the musical inclination of alternating current his semi-waking mind wouldn't answer.  Its furry breath was barely cool, like the hot tongue of a dog, any cooling power lost to the summer's heat already filling the room.  I should get up rolled through his mind, an errant thought quickly banished.  No, being on the shore of dreams was too sweet a place to leave, a golden beach in Baja with a white sun and azul water, and in this particular dream, the sensual delight of some phantom girl, tanned skin barely cloaked by a translucent white bikini.  An ice cream delicious dream, progressing nicely as such fantasies are wont to do, until the urgent bleat of the telephone barged in from across the room, as an astonished parent might, catching him in delicto flagrante. He ignored that persistent little digital bleep as long as possible, the rhythm of it growing quickly maddening, until a limp roll off the bed brought him to his feet.

Or would have, had the sheet not reached out a foot of its own and sent him crashing down.  Two cannibalized bicycles lying in wait against the wall saw his vulnerability and fell upon him.  In a flurry of profanity he threw off his attackers, and managed crawling across his well-cultivated lawn of soiled clothing to the phone.

... ello?

Nathan? You hung over?

Ugh, just woke up.

Sarah, plain but not that tall, a wonderful person to have call you in the morning.  Sarah with the gray, open eyes and oak-blond hair.  Often enough he wished it rather a nudge than a ring, but that was as much a dream as the one he had just enjoyed.  Sarah must have the day off too, he thought, and turned to look for his clock, tumbling a few books off the shelves beside him.  With more profanity he bashed his head on the shelves as he reached down to retrieve the books.  A throbbing spike of pain stabbed between his eyes and he couldn't help but moan.

I can call back…

What time is it? Still pressing his forehead, then checking his fingers for blood.

Twelve.  So... whatcha got planned for today?

Nothing, ouch, just a day off.  Probably do some laundry.

Yeah, knowing you, you should do laundry.  Hey, I called to see if you wanted some lunch at Cafe Benito.  Twelve thirty maybe?

Th-that sounds good.  I'm kinda hungry.

Alright.  Meet ya there.

He set the phone down and surveyed the ill-lit devastation of his room.  Some laundry and those ungrateful bikes were the plan for the day, to put one in some semblance of working order through a multi-organ transplant, but for Sarah, he decided quickly that he assembled enough bikes as it was.  The bathroom needed cleaning, and possibly a priest, but being of the unfair sex, that could wait until the Centers for Disease Control came space-suited to his door.  So many things that didn't really need doing.  What to wear, what to wear...

By sheer luck he found a clean shirt in the closet.  Good, it matched the still clean pants, light khaki and dark khaki, yin and yang, and his good shoes. Into the bathroom, checking for what cologne might be left from last year, but found none in the mouldering shoebox of tinctures, hair products, and ointments in ground-glass bottles.  The spotted mirror returned a sour look as he thrashed at his teeth with a splayed toothbrush.  In its moted sight he noted the yellowed walls speckled with black colonies of mold, a ragged towel curled in the stratified bathtub to dull the ring of the dripping tap, a ceiling sagging from a roofer's misstep and a poor job of patching by the landlord.  And the unspeakable horror of his W.C., as he'd christened it, olive green porcelain bearing stains of well-known origin.  He shuddered at its filthy grin.

The gap-toothed comb arced through his hair, lubricated with a fruity-scented gel, setting it perfectly back in congealed rivulets of black-brown hair.  Smooth enough, knatty Natey, now you just need to shave, and across his squared jaw the razor drew smoothly, erasing the dotting of his stubble, dropping bits into the hellmouth of his sink, worn past the enamel into pocked steel.  It let out a gastric rumble as the iron-tinged water tickled down its throat.  I really should clean this place, he scolded as he noted the Irish freckling of stubble bits on the soap-scummed porcelain.

Into the living room, in a much more acceptable state than the chamber of horrors that he'd left.  A wave of heat washed over him and stuck, ringing sweat from his face, white light pouring in from a naked window.  The couch sat morose, back to the window, and the tiny blank face of a TV on its cinderblock stand reflected the honey glow of the old oak floor, dazzled by the sun.  He drew down the shade with an exaggerated fear of its potential recoil, and caught a glimpse of the torrid street outside, lunch-time cars caught in the tar of traffic, glinting painfully under the sun.  Another blazing Central Valley summer day, wash-water sky and motionless trees sickly green in the heat, the air clingy and cloying as a dog-stinking sweater.

Oh God, he thought, I've got to go out there, but at least it's for Sarah.

The Seventh Circle of Hell is Retail

The stairway seemed a portal to another dimension, cool just outside his door, radiating waves of blunt thermal force at the street, just fifteen well-worn steps away.  Only one at a time up this stairwell, a tunnel cased in wood panels slowly peeling, carved or signed in swirling scribbles of tag and plastered randomly with offensive skateboard company stickers.  The steps sloped precipitously at their forward edge, and many a night he'd been nearly flung to his death by the landlord's lack of concern.  A good personal injury lawyer would change that someday.  Down, descending into a halfway point on the road to Hell; everything he thought he wanted was down here, or somewhere around here, but it was just so damn hot.  Down he went to the river of asphalt black, its heat reaching out infernal fingers to tickle his armpits.

Out into the street he stepped, jauntily loose-jointed, a slightly noticeable springiness in his step, unattributable to still-elastic polymers in his shoes.  An easy air of carelessness rode on his shoulders, though his eyes pinched tight against the glare.  Far along down the block the sidewalk shimmered, little noontime state workers wobbly in the heat waves.  Every eatery in downtown would be swarming with ill-dressed office dogs, gesturing mildly and speaking emphatically about their home-lives, or the Kings' game last night, or something else mundane, usually about children. The women were round and walked with rotating hips, or if desirable, with a slight switch, rocking their buttocks vigorously back and forth under midlength black skirts. Office men favored sportshirts in odd colors, such as peach, while the politically affiliated wore single-breasted suits, usually silk, sometimes pinstriped.

Lunchtime brought to a stop the political heart of the world's seventh largest economy from twelve to one or long enough for the martinis to wear off a bit, every weekday, except for a wide array of state, federal, and Hallmark holidays, when it slipped into full-blown fibrillation. Redheaded stepchild to LA and San Francisco, the oft forgotten capital of the most populous state in the Union, a nameless, secret place known for tomatoes and its purgatorial summer heat.

The sun fell heavy on his uncovered head, and the gel had already begun to melt before he reached the meager shade of a thin tree, dwarfed by the dark aggregate tower of an office building.  Noontime meant no relief in sight, until well after dark, just molten white lead falling all day long.  Down the street from his apartment a small cafe was brim-filled already, the wrought iron furniture left alone, shining and untouchable under the full sun.  He stood in the sliver of shade a moment and moved on, passing under a skyway conveying office workers from one oppressive concrete building to another, not far above the melting street.

Past the check cashing store, bright yellow neon and sterile white tile facing a row of glass-boxed tellers.  An unidentifiable brown mucoid mass on the sidewalk, a feature of every urban footpath, almost escaped his attention, but a long step saved him.  Real deliverance, real shade, was several blocks away, down 10th street, a colonnade of palm trees, on past the state capitol, regal white granite luminous, the golden ball atop the green-weeping copper roof reaching out to meet the sun.  A rushing herd of cars roared and bellowed past as he headed towards that gleaming beacon, the growl in his stomach becoming angry.

Twos and threes of office workers passed him as he walked on, the procession of the capitol steps across the street, a greyed green stand of twisted cedars beside him, bent like old men talking.  They conspired to hide the old Courts and Library buildings, solemn Greek twins facing the traffic circle they guarded, girdled by parked cars.  The spouting fountain in the middle pattered, barely heard above the grinding traffic, surrounded by washed-out roses.  He looked over at the statues guarding the Ionic entranceway, one Poseidon, the other Athena, her bare breasts proud and upright as she sat enthroned.  It occurred to him that the statue, supposed to be female, was really just a male statue with breasts.  A transexual statue, now that's progressive, he thought, seeing through the blur of the fountain the Tower bridge, orange and massive far down the Mall, framed by the black grid of one building, and the blue glass curtain of another, skewered on the blasted white lanes of Mall street.

A group of homeless men congregated in the shade of the cedars past the traffic circle, lounging in the shade around solemn statues to fallen lawmen, unseeing eyes and creased uniforms patriotic and cool in untinged bronze.  He wanted to stop in the shade, as his stomach had started sweating itchy little beads, but the gruff and beer-stinking bearded men seemed unwelcoming.  A smaller shaven man with a filthy mesh-backed ballcap was gesturing emphatically to a taller, equally filthy man in a Superman shirt with colored cuffs.

Just ain't right, man, it just ain't right to confiscate a man's cans when he goes in the tank! Good week's worth of cans, that was.

Noticing Nathan he held out an open hand, lined with dirt, and intoned the mantra of the destitute: Spare some change, man?

Change comes only from within, Nathan wished so desperately to say, but he restrained himself and shook his head, sending stinging beads of gel-laced sweat streaking down his face.  The bums mumbled among themselves and rattled their carts, too heat-sapped to plumb for precious recyclables in public garbage cans swarming with yellow-jackets.  On he stumbled, wiping at his eyes with a shirttail, carefully tucking it back in so as not to let the soiling show.  The street stretched on endlessly between the feathered tops of the palms, without a single shady respite, an eternity of furnace-blasted steps. He'd be soaked before he got there.

Sarah would make fun of him anyway, but he wanted to look good, hip, suitable as a mate.  Sweet and sour Sarah, long flaxen hair and those sea-gray eyes.  It made him happy to think of her, warm and giddy.  Funny he'd stayed friends with her this long.  Just friends?  How had that happened?  Now that he thought about it, fairly easily.

Onto N street he turned, to stare down another colonnade of palm trees, the consummate symbol of California to those who learn from television.  The broad park around the Capitol stretched greenly languorous, a few arbored coves giving respite from the ruthless sun.  But for the time he would have stopped, dropping breathless into a quiet weathered bench and savoring the blessed shade.  He did not, and as he walked on the traffic hummed beside him, strangely subdued, mellow in the white heat.  A car would be really nice right now, stale air conditioning chilling my hands and knees, my shirt stuck to my back, no sweat on my stomach.  I could have asked Sarah for a lift… and cursed himself for not thinking of that an hour ago.

He kept on, through the green blur of the park, floating in a steamy haze, thoughts light as balloons, not wanting to stay too long.  An old Chevy, an original Corvette, rumbled by in all its sensuous sheet metal glory, cherry red and pure white, as American as hamburger.  A beautiful car, sexual lines, the profile of a gorgeous woman laying on her side.  The other cars around it seemed ashamed of being modeled after bars of soap.  Now that’s what he needed to be driving.

Far behind him now the capital fell, wavering as a mirage in the roadbed thermal waves. A semi rattled by, sending a diesel-laced breeze his way, a hot choking breeze that only made things worse.  The restaurant seemed so far, so many steps, lifting numb feet many more times.  Not that he was unused to being on his feet. Sactown Bicycles took care of that, eight or nine or ten hours a day; the funny thing about working at a bike shop is that you no longer get to ride a bike.

He made a living, he couldn't complain, except for the mostly cretinous customers.  A particularly doltish type came to mind, the Ignorant Demander, as he called this churlish breed. Usually in their thirties, dressed in generic button-up shirt and jeans, and very underinformed about anything except brand names.  A typical conversation followed this format:

Hi. I'm looking for a Brand We Don't Carry Here.

I'm sorry, Sir or Ma'am, we don't carry Brand We Don't Carry Here.

Well why not?

Because they suck, Sir or Ma'am.

Or, if continued employment is desired:

Because Brand We Don't Carry Here doesn't give you Brand We Do Carry's one year, one-of-a-kind service plan, where we fix all the utterly simple things you could fix yourself, if you weren't lazy and stupid.  This can generally be conveyed nonverbally, by application of the patented Mechanic's Smirk, related to the Car Mechanic's So You Don't Know What A CV Joint Is Off-Kilter Grin.

Well, I guess I'll have to go to That Other, Smaller, More Pretentious and Expensive Bike Shop where the Customers Wear Lycra and Jerseys For Teams They Don't Ride For and Brag about the Weight of their $50 Titanium Water Bottle Cage Screws.

Suit yourself. From the jiggle of your middle, a Huffty would be your best choice.  It's solid steel bar construction ensures a near-fatal heartrate and vein-popping exertion on even the flattest of surfaces.

Another type of customer came to mind, the Techie:

Hi, I'm looking for This Incredibly Expensive Brand of Part, with These Specifications that I have No Idea What They Refer To, that was Just Recalled for Failing in Incredibly Bad Situations, Directly Leading to User Death or Mangling Injury.

You know that part was just recalled, right?

Oh, but this magazine here rated it the Best Extremely Expensive Part that Will Have Absolutely No Effect on How Well You Ride, of the Year.

Well, that was before one broke in a downhill race, and turned a guy into spaghetti sauce. The company got so many calls they had their phones disconnected.

Oh.  Do you have something that costs as much and does as little?

Perhaps that wasn't very generous, Nathan considered. Where else can you learn about things except through the mass media, unless you question people with experience?  That, of course, lead to the Problem Child or Adult:

What's your best bike here?

Well, what kind of riding do you do?  Obviously not much, by your soft and shapeless quads and undefined calves, you poser, out of my store!

All kinds. I need a bike that's like, um, good for everything. I want it super light, but I can jump off my roof and not break anything.

Here, this is the bike for you then.  Indicating a vacant space in the racks.  The Roadblaster Tricky-Pro.  Five pounds, four ounces, but can withstand ten thousand pounds per square inch at every weld without failure. Made of Fabulinium for ultimate strength.  Standard features include a radio, GPS, an onboard navigational computer, HVAC, an umbrella, oil slick tubes, two .50 caliber machine guns, an ejection seat, and best of all, it's invisible.  Even 007 can't get his hands on hardware like this.  Would you like a test ride?

Nathan snickered to himself as he reached the intersection, amused by his own misanthropic view of the retail bike business.  He hadn't even begun to dig into the public's mechanical ignorance as a large truck atop enormous tires, spiky-headed yellow doll strung up from the trailer hitch and a sticker on the rear window of a devious adolescent relieving himself on a Ford emblem, ran the red light.  Had he continued on that other train of thought, he would have thoroughly amused himself right off the curb and into oncoming oblivion.

Shaking, he stepped gingerly into the crosswalk, thanking God for deliverance from the infamous Big Truck.  He should have heard the hum of the outrageously oversized tires, or the blasting spandex-rock from the stereo, or the thunder of the enormously aspirated small-block bearing down on him.  Just things to keep in mind, to continue one's existence.  Overhead the concrete arch of the freeway swept, an idling chainsaw buzzing low and menacing, massive atop its decapitated columns.  White mineral streaks ran in waves down the uprights, and an occasional swirl of tag broke the ready-mix monotony.

The freeway's shade was a blessed relief.  He paused to wipe his face again, and bellow his shirt.  A wave of traffic swept by, the speed-racer types at the fore, the normal drivers at the middle, and the older cars and drivers at the tail.  A universal law of traffic, that it came in waves, sets, as surfers would call them, rhythmic, but only if you watched long enough.  Right now he really regretted not having a car, his last vehicle having died a horrible death, belching noxious blue smoke at the side of Highway 50, within sight of Placerville its goal. Off to the automotive Valhalla, where the insults of its mortal existence were washed away in a shower of hard new enamel and two clear coats, every part restored to factory condition, and the oil and filter changed every 3000 miles.  The '81 Pinto, the Bean Mobile in his circle of friends, named so after the catalytic converter had gone out and began smelling like rotten eggs.  Yes, the poor, poor car, leaving poor, poor Nathan to ride or walk the streets of Sacramento, downcast, downtrodden, down on his luck, downright broke.

The cafe was so close now, he could almost smell the hipness of the midtown yuppie crowd by their designer t-shirts and alcoholic cologne.  This side of the freeway sat beneath a canopy of rising elms and yawning oaks.  It was far more pleasant, and he actually started cooling off at some point.  Were it not so hellishly hot, the cafes would spill customers onto the sidewalks, to sit in plastic lawn furniture on a patio defined by a low, wrought iron fence as required by law for alcohol consumption.  There would be women with tightly bunned hair and dark sunglasses and darker lipstick, nodding coolly while their verbose blondish companion pretentiated about some piece of clothing they had recently purchased.  The men would have a sort of bland handsomeness, with button-up shirts, sharply pleated slacks, precisely gelled hair, talking about their work to generally pretty but not stunning women who tried to hide their boredom.   But today he walked on, past chairs left empty by the heat, watching the sun spark off the windows of passing cars.

Cafe Benito appeared, a few tables with weathered umbrellas advertising foreign beers sitting alone in the heat, as even lifelong Sacramentans didn't like to sit outside in this heat.  If he did see anyone out in this heat, he would ask if they were from Phoenix.  Roughly cut steel letters above the door wept rust onto the limey brickwork, the green awnings strangely new and taut.  Two college girls pressed out past him, smiling knowingly, as if all the world's wisdom had been passed strictly into their confidence.  Cute, but probably lesbian, from the extraneous piercings and punk band T-shirts, and the fact they were holding hands.  Too bad they're playing for the other team, he dreamed.

After the pyre of the sidewalk the interior was mercifully cool, and he basked for a moment in the flowing blue fluid of frigid air that swept down from the square vents above.  Fat worm tubes of ducting wound up and around in the black space above, interspersed with tiny sun-bright halogens that spotlighted the dulled copper discs of tabletops.  And beneath one, haloed as if an angel, Sarah.

The Strangeness of That Situation

I was sitting, reading the News and Review when he finally showed up, turnip-faced and dripping sweat.  He's such a goof, he could have asked for a ride, but he didn't, Mr. Self-Sufficiency.  I wonder how drunk he was last night, to be waking up when I called. Drinking alone again, I swear he's an alcoholic.  Then again, if I worked in a bike shop, I'd probably drink myself into an early grave too.

He walked over with a wide, silly grin on his face, and dropped into the chair I offered.

Howdy there, Sarah.

Hey Nate, how's the hangover?

"Hangover?

I stretched, and Nate actually didn't look at my tits, which surprised me, as he'll check out almost anything with breasts, female or not.

Well, you sounded hung over on the phone.

I didn't get to sleep till late.

Make a late night trip to the video store?

He had to laugh at that. I always tease him about his atrocious luck with women. Currently, he is going on at least two years without sex.  Me... well, we won't go into that.  Sex isn't my main concern, in any case, and finding a decent man among the cretins in this town isn't anywhere on my list of priorities.  But Nathan, from what I've seen, is desperate.  Yeah, I can see it in the way he checked out the Persian waitress with the flashing eyes.  Even I'd check her out though, she's that attractive.  He has a thing for dark-eyed, dark-haired, mysterious Gypsy types.  Must be from spending his childhood years gawking at National Geographic, I guess.

I was working on my bike.

Nice euphemism for spanking it, there. He gave me a sour look and backed his chair up.

Hey, I'm gonna go get something, I didn't really have dinner last night.

I nodded as he got up and weaved to the counter.  He's almost cute, but too thin for my tastes.  He's scrawny, to tell the truth, just bone and stringy muscle.  That hair has to go too, it's short and draws attention to his pencil neck.  On the plus side, he is smart in a mechanical way.  He is afraid of nothing when it comes to taking things apart.  TV's, refrigerators, cell phones, someone else's car; no warning label, seal, or specialty fastener of any kind can deter him.  I wonder how his parents ever let him live!

While waiting for Nate, I watched a very handsome Spanish fellow put the moves on a very blond American girl a few tables away.  As he leaned conspiratorially toward her, his large hairy hands swept out, an expansive gesture, and she giggled like a little girl, eyes just merry lines.  He leaned back and smiled like a cat, full of pride.  I wanted to scream Be Careful! to her, since every European guy I'd ever met wanted to use that accent to sample my wares.  Maybe I'm making a really gross generalization, but that's happened to me too many times to count.

It's a small town, and who happened to walk through the door, her white blouse open immodestly and a black miniskirt hugging her beautiful butt, but my friend Leah.  She's the most attractive person I know, in an animal, sensual way, and not arrogant about it, at least to me.  Men stop midsentence and stand agape when she walks by, and the cafe's patrons had to turn and look.  She ignored them, a friendly, cocky smile on her face when she picked me out of the crowd.

Hey there, sister.  I saw you, walking by.  You all by your lonesome?

Nate's here.  He's ordering something.  Oh, when he gets back, ask him if he has to pick up his girlfriend at 2:50.

Why, is she in junior high?

Exactly.

Leah laughed throatily and grabbed the straw of my finished drink to chew on.  Her eyes flicked over to Nate, and she studied him a moment.

Is this just friendly with him?

Now why do you say that?  I know what you're implying.

With an easy gesture she pointed at him with the purloined straw.

Look how nicely he's dressed.  He's interested in you.  He doesn't even wear underwear if he doesn't have to.

He’s not that bad... well, maybe you're right.

Nate returned with an overstuffed sandwich and a tall coffee.  He really needs the caffeine for his brain to function correctly.  Greeting Leah, he sat down.  Amazingly, he did not stare at her blatant cleavage.  Even I had to glance, it was almost unavoidable.

So Nate, don't you have to pick up your girlfriend at 2:50?

He gave her an exasperated huff, eye roll, and bit into his sandwich.

Come on, I knew plenty of girls in junior high going out with college guys.  No big deal, you can usually plea bargain down to a misdemeanor.

She laughed and rolled her head, and I noticed the faint purple blotch of a lovebite on her neck.

Did you get laid last night?

She bit the straw sensually and narrowed her eyes.

Anna came by.

Wow, I thought she had a boyfriend.

She still does, but it kinda looks as though that might change.

I sat back and mulled over the strangeness of that situation.  Femme fatale, envy of womanhood and desire of man, steals another guy's girlfriend.  Hey, Leah's an original, what can you say?

Anna?

Nate had no idea, really.  His eyes went really wide and he stopped eating in the middle of his sandwich, which if you know Nate's appetite, is a really tough thing for him to do.

Yes, Nate, beautiful, soft, sensual Anna, with those deep brown eyes, who didn't know what sex could be like until last night.  Didn't you know?  Have I never told him?  I guess those kids in junior high that called me ‘Lesbo Leah’ knew something I didn't.  Go figure.

Nate stared at her, trying to figure what clues he'd missed.

Now you're getting those ‘I Wonder What They Do In Bed’ thoughts, aren't you?

No, I was just wondering why nobody told me…

Need to know basis.  You didn't need to know.

Nate eyed his sandwich dejectedly.  I really don't think he was thinking about her and Anna and chocolate syrup at the moment. She sat back and intertwined her fingers over her belly, smiling knowingly at me.  We'd had our moments, so to speak.  Then I remembered something important, at least to me.

You remember that guy Maxwell I told you about?  He called me the other night.

Really?  You still talk to him?

Yeah.  He asked about you too, Nate.

Nate seemed a little annoyed at the mention of his former roommate's name.

Huh.  I got one call from that guy last year, and he wanted a ride to San Francisco.  What a punk.

I'd hoped Maxwell would call Nate first.  Nate introduced me to his former college roommate last year, and he'd been sending me notes intermittently since then.  Real handwritten letters!  Nice penmanship too.  Eccentric, obnoxiously intelligent, but arrogant as hell; your typical literary type.

What's he been up to? said Nate, taking another bite of the rapidly self-disassembling sandwich.

Just school.  Finishing up finals, writing a column for the newspaper, writing essays for the literary magazine, fighting against human rights abuses in China, taking in homeless kittens, you know, ten thousand things at the same time and he does them all well.  Bastard.

That's Max.

Leah shook her hair out and checked her watch.

Oh man, I gotta git.  How about getting to-get-her Friday, my place?  You guys can meet Anna.  I'll cook something.

Leaving already?  So much for a lunch date.  Tomorrow is Friday, you know.

"Damn, you're right!  Call me