Psycho Bitch: A Love Story

  Why couldn't I have gotten a man? They are so much easier to get information out of. A quick, “Wow, you've got a great voice,” or some other flattering bullshit, and I was almost guaranteed to get them to give me what I was asking for. Women were much more immune to my efforts, unless they were desperate or gay.

  "Miss, I understand that you are doing a thankless job and you probably get little recognition for such heartbreaking work. Let me personally say thank you, I can only imagine how heartbreaking it must be at times." I didn't know which way to play it with her, so I was going for gratitude and commiseration. "That's what it was for me with this animal, absolutely heartbreaking and I can't get him out of my head." This much was true at least. "Can you please see your way to letting me know his status?"

  There, I'd given her the full complement of gratitude and flattery with a skosh of obsequiousness. There was silence. I could hear the wheels turning. Any second now she should tell me what I wanted to know.

  "Ma'am, I just follow the rules, I don't make them."

  "Fine!"

  I hung up, wasting no more words on her and smashing my finger against the screen of my phone as if it were her uncooperative face, all the while cursing touch screens. At least when you had real buttons, there was some tactile feedback, some actual physical sensation. Now, it's nothing more than cold glass. There is absolutely no satisfaction in that when you've got a good snit on.

  Shoving my phone in my purse, I stomped down N Street on my way to Kona. My body vibrated with caged frustration, and I wanted a way to vent it, but I didn't really know how. A block later, I slowed down. Venting my frustration on concrete was hurting nothing but the soles of my feet. Thank goodness I didn't wear stilettos, but even my three-inch stacked heels couldn't withstand that treatment. By the time I made it to Kona, I was practically hobbling.

  In no mood for frilly coffee, I ordered a straight latte and set up shop at a table by the door. My favorite table was taken by some college students who were dug in like ticks. I doubted I'd get it anytime soon. Briefly, I considered several forms of sabotage to get them to leave but decided it wasn't worth the risk of being thrown out.

  Taking a deep breath, I did my best to clear my head. I'd been out of sync ever since I woke up. You know those days where your mind feels like it's covered in fog and your thoughts are a degree left of center? It had been one of those days.

  I was off my game, I didn't know why, but I knew I couldn't afford it. I had a meeting with Greg Haldane that afternoon, and I needed to have the draft system requirements complete before then.

  I set up my equipment, once again ensuring everything was aligned in perfect parallels, and pushed all extraneous thoughts out of my mind. I managed to get in a solid hour of work and was about to start the final section on risk management when a pair of grey cargo pants filled my periphery.

  "May I join you?"

  Henry stood in front of me. As if he was determined to single-handedly destroy my preconceptions about Brits, he wore another t-shirt—this one was red, the same work boots, and jeans. In his hands were a large coffee and a copy of The Economist.

  "What exactly do you do?" I asked a bit abruptly, though I waved him into the empty chair in front of me.

  I don't normally like to be interrupted when I'm working, and I damn sure don't like to share my table, but I was still a little off. The Brit would be a good distraction.

  He settled himself into the seat across from me before saying, "What do you mean?"

  "For work. I haven't been able to peg you."

  He grinned and leaned back, spreading his arms wide. "Come on. No Holmesian dissection for me?"

  I looked him over, but in truth he was a mix of contradictions. His hair was silver, but his eyes and demeanor were youthful. He was British, but I'd never seen him drink anything other than coffee. His clothes were like a grunge college student, but he read high-brow magazines like The Economist.

  My belly twisted and my skin prickled. I grew hot as I studied him. Fear warred with an inexplicable sadness. I like mysteries but not riddles as paradoxical as that may seem. Mysteries have a series of distinct clues leading up to an inevitable resolution. Riddles often require an intuitive leap to arrive at the answer—in other words, the solutions tend to rely on a good deal of luck. You can't control luck. I avoid riddles, but that was exactly what Henry was. The realization made me sad.

  "Sorry. No show today."

  His grin faltered, and he leaned forward, "Why do you seem so down today? Is this about the dog?"

  I started at the question. Tendrils of fear grew into full on fight-or-flight adrenaline coursing through my limbs. I tamped down my egregious reaction to an innocuous question and tried to determine what surprised me more: that he'd remembered our conversation or that he noticed I was sad.

  Most people don't notice my mood changes. I spent years working in offices where no one ever asked me what was wrong. In the three years I'd been with Adam, he continued to insist that I never showed emotion. When I'm angry, he'll tell me I look blank. Or, I could be totally thrilled for him and he'd tell me I didn't seem excited. Once, fed up at just such a comment, I broke into a cheer and even did the requisite jumps—I was a cheerleader in high school. Adam got so mad at me he didn't speak to me for two days. I refused to apologize, but he never said that to me again.

  I hadn't told Adam about the dog. I didn't want to talk about Corky with him and risk having to go through all that emotional upheaval again. Once was enough.

  "I tried to find out what happened to him, but they wouldn't tell me."

  "Well, that's terrible. Have you thought about going in person? Maybe bring some donuts or cookies with you. Sweets can loosen a lot of tongues."

  I smiled. "You want me to bribe them with pastry?"

  "No, not at all. Bribe is such an ugly word," he gestured softly with his hands as he spoke, "I'm suggesting you offer them a thank you for the hard and unforgiving work they do and maybe," he emphasized the maybe, "they'll be willing to give you the information."

  I laughed. "That's just another kind of bribe." And, I added mentally, the bitch at the front desk isn't receptive, thinking of my failed efforts at ingratiating myself with her.

  "Tomato, tomahto, my dear."

  Still smiling, I asked him again what it was he did. I really don't like unanswered questions. They tend to linger.

  "I am a consultant. I offer my expertise out to businesses on technology matters."

  I kind of zoned out as he continued to explain how he basically helped companies get rid of their old technology without compromising their daily operations. I am not good at listening to stuff that doesn't directly impact my life.

  "Interesting," I said when he finished.

  "Liar," he laughed and there was no malice in the accusation, but I froze feeling very much as if I’d just walked into a room full of spotlights and they were all pointed at me.

  "What?" I pretended outrage as I tried, and failed, to anticipate what was coming next.

  "My work is only interesting to other people who do the same thing." He reached out and touched my hand so lightly, I only knew he'd done it because I witnessed the movement. "It's fine."

  I blushed, something I rarely do as I go out of my way to ensure I am not embarrassed. I was tempted to lie, but what risk was there to me from him? Plus, I was tired.

  "So, you're a geek then."

  His smile was as pure as his laugh. He leaned closer and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level. "Worse, I'm a nerd. Always have been."

  Once again at ease, I chuckled and asked, "What's the difference?"

  He looked aghast, but there was a twinkle in his eye belying his true intent.

  "A geek, Madame, is an enthusiast of a particular subject. Hence, the ubiquitous American usage of 'computer geek'. A nerd, on the other hand, is a consummate intellectual and can have many pursuits, though we do tend to specialize eventually."

  Shaking my head, I smile
d and said, "I've always used them interchangeably."

  "Ah, yes, you Americans tend to do that, but the only linkage between the two is the lack of social skills both possess."

  "Can you possess a lack of something?" I was being a smart ass, but I meant no harm.

  "Touché," he smiled brightly.

  "You don't seem to lack social skills. You know," I looked directly into his eyes, "at first, I read you as shy, but I think I may have been wrong."

  He blushed deeply, and the ruddy tone heightened the blue of his eyes.

  "I tend to be awkward with women."

  I raised an eyebrow "So, how should I interpret your lack of awkwardness with me?"

  His grin was once again wide as he said, "Years of learning to fake it."

  Our eyes stayed locked together, and an awareness stretched between us. It was not something easily defined. I know lust. I know flirtation. I had no idea what this was. My confusion grew as the silence lengthened, and I broke eye contact by looking at my watch.

  Before I could speak, Henry spoke in tones dry enough to rival the Mojave. "You have an appointment, right?"

  Shocked, not only at being caught out in my intention but also at being so fully exposed, I blushed again. The heat radiated down my neck, and perspiration bloomed along my skin. Twice in one conversation. Not good. Not good at all.

  "Charlotte." My name was gentle on his lips, and I again met his eyes when he said no more. Rather than twinkle, his eyes were kind as he continued, "It doesn't take a genius to figure out that is your go-to escape. You don't need to lie to me. I'm a big boy." He raised his right hand and held up three fingers. "Scout's honor."

  Yeah, right, I thought. When had anyone ever accepted my honesty? My shame deepened as I wondered how many others had figured me out and not said a word. Soon enough, everything crystallized into belligerence as I struggled to regain my control.

  "All right, busted. I did lie before. Most people are offended when you are honest despite what they claim." I tipped my chin up daring him to contradict me.

  "Well, I try very hard not to be most people, Charlotte."

  We'll see. I left that thought unspoken. Aloud I said, "I actually do have an appointment, but it's later. Right now, I need to finish what I'm working on."

  "By all means, don't let me get in your way. I have a magazine to read. Ignore me."

  I had no idea how to take this. Finally, for lack of anything better to say, I murmured, "Thanks."

  For the next two hours, we shared a table in companionable silence. Go figure.

  8. A Working Hypothesis

  TAP, TAP, TAP. MY PEN beat a staccato rhythm against the desk in the self-service copy shop. I'd come here to print out the documents I was delivering to Greg at our meeting. Slowly, I became aware of the woman next to me, glaring.

  I dropped the pen and my foot took up the beat, albeit silently. The industrial printer was busy vomiting up my documents, but my mind was back at Kona. That was the single weirdest experience I'd ever had. Henry had proven to be a man of his word. He hadn't distracted me with random outbursts about what he was reading or pithy quips about the patrons at the cafe. He'd read his magazine while leisurely sipping his coffee.

  If drinking coffee were a track and field event, Henry was a cross-country runner, while I was a sprinter. He'd made that one large coffee last the entire time we'd sat together, while I was on my second by the end.

  It wasn't the coffee drinking that stuck though; it was the silence. I'd never met anyone who actually granted me the silence I requested. And, when I said I needed to leave, he'd given me one of those bottomless smiles and wished me good luck on my meeting.

  I was still reeling from having been able to be completely honest with someone and not be punished for it. You'd think it would have been a relief, but it had only disconcerted me and left me feeling more out of sync, more like a stranger in my own skin.

  It had to be an act, a ploy to get something, but, what? We were virtual strangers to each other. I couldn't find a ready motive to explain his behavior. On top of that, there was the way he'd totally called me on my bullshit without it devolving into some marathon argument. But then, I'd only admitted to it because Henry didn't impact my life. If I never saw him again, so what? At most, it would be somewhat awkward at Kona, but I'd get over that.

  On the whole, I had absolutely no point of reference for the exchange, and it left me feeling edgy. I don't like things that fall outside my comfort zone of understanding.

  "I think this is yours," the woman who had been glaring at me handed me my stack of print outs. I hadn't even noticed the machine had stopped.

  I was really off my game. I needed to pull myself together.

  "Thanks," I said, taking the papers and using the binding machines to prepare them. I put everything in my satchel and headed out to catch the red line train to Farragut North.

  I was meeting Greg at Barnaby's, a small grill across from the Hudson Barnes building over on K Street. I made it a rule never to bring clients into my direct territory. I didn't want to introduce them to any places I liked to frequent in my off hours. That meant I avoided all meetings in Dupont Circle and any of my favorite restaurants.

  I'd eaten at Barnaby's before. It was a little hole-in-the-wall diner selling classic American food with a gourmet twist. Before I'd been shown the door at my last job, I'd worked down the street and had treated myself to lunch at Barnaby's a few times a month. It wasn't fine dining, but it was no chain restaurant either.

  I liked the cozy, yet sophisticated ambiance. The decor was modern, but Barnaby, who'd once made his living as a stunt double in Hollywood, had lots of memorabilia and vintage movie posters decorating the walls. Add in excellent service and pricing that stretched but didn't break my budget, and I was a happy camper.

  I arrived early—a habit that annoyed Adam, but one I couldn't break. I hated waiting, but I hated being late, but given a choice I went with the former. As a result, I tended to end up everywhere at least fifteen minutes early. If I'm going to have to wait, it might as well be at my destination.

  The hostess sat me at a small booth along the rear wall and took my order for a Shirley Temple. It seemed childish, I'm sure, but I'd always loved them and never drink alcohol while I'm working.

  From my vantage point, I had an unimpeded view of both the door and the few remaining patrons. I'd deliberately chosen a time early in the afternoon but late enough that most of the lunch rush was over, so the restaurant wasn't crowded.

  My drink was delivered by my waitress who introduced herself as Ashli, her name tag providing the proper spelling. I barely contained my eye roll. This whole fad with replacing perfectly good diphthongs that had worked flawlessly for centuries with single letters was a personal peeve of mine.

  I sent her on her way, letting her know I was expecting someone. Hopefully, she read between the lines and wouldn't come back with perky, annoying questions on how I was doing before Greg showed up.

  I pulled out the packet I'd prepared and reviewed it one more time when my attention was caught by an elderly couple being seated. The man, a stately gentleman with iron grey hair and severe features, pulled out his wife's chair. She sat and smiled up at him. He returned the smile, and it was as if he transformed. All the severity left his face as he gazed at her. He placed a large palm on her shoulder, and the emotion between them was palpable.

  I'd never seen two people of such advanced years have so much tenderness for one another. Certainly, no one in my personal experience ever had. The hostess spoke to them, likely taking their drink orders as well, and left.

  As I watched, the man held her hand across the table. She was elegant in a school teacher-ish way. She wore a linen dress in pale blue. Her thick, white hair was pulled into a simple knot at the base of her neck. The only adornment she wore was a large diamond on her ring finger. Something about her was beautiful even though her individual features were rather ordinary.

  They spo
ke, laughed and touched. Their voices were soft and didn't carry to where I sat. It was like watching a silent movie. Their communication was so intimate I felt like a voyeur. Part of me wanted to look away, but the rest of me was riveted.

  Ashli-with-an-i approached their table with cups of coffee and menus. Her much higher pitched voice carried as she exclaimed over their sixtieth anniversary.

  I was stunned. Sixty years. How was that even possible? No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't imagine myself with Adam—with anyone—for that long. How do you stay with someone for six decades and not just tolerate them but still love them? How do you bond with someone enough to want to ride out the inevitable rough times? Was it even possible to be that unselfish? Did they truly find a way to accept all the flaws? Were they really just faking it?

  My mind spun with questions, and I felt like a scientist watching an experiment in action as I tried to find a working hypothesis. Images of Adam flowed through my mind, and I knew I had never felt a fraction of the tenderness these two evidenced. I liked him, found him generally tolerable, and thoroughly enjoyed the perks of being with him. However, hard as I tried, I couldn't imagine growing old with Adam.

  That didn't mean I had any plans to leave him. I expected to grow old with Adam, but, it was more of an abstract thought based on an extrapolation of my present rather than something dwelling inside of me. All I ever saw when I imagined myself as an old woman was me alone. It had been that way with every man I'd ever dated. That had never bothered me before, but right then, watching that couple, I felt hollow.

  I was so caught up in my thoughts that I completely missed Greg's entrance and almost came out of my shoes when he slid into the booth across from me. I recovered quickly, exchanged the necessary pleasantries, and got down to business.

  The couple and my disturbing ruminations were temporarily forgotten.

  * * *

  Blog Post: Outside Looking In

  Life Inside the Echo Chamber

  What does it mean to truly bond with another person so deeply that you intertwine your life and honestly love that person? For me, this concept is like trying to read Latin. I see words of which I can decipher the meaning, but there is no context, no visceral understanding at the emotional level.