The Scent of the Blueberry -- 5

That had occurred during the few days before receiving Karen’s letter. Evelyn was in the local watering hole, a relatively harmless local bar appropriately named, “Your Local Watering Hole” and commonly referenced as simply “The Hole”, nursing a Scotch that she really didn’t need and really couldn’t afford. Not an uncommon occurrence, but this time it was followed by 2 other distinctly uncommon occurrences.

The first was that a guy hit on her. Most people would not have found this surprising. Unlike fashion models, there is no real requirement that artists’ models be physically attractive. But most of them are reasonably so -- maybe because most people apparently have to possess a basic sense of physical self-esteem before disrobing in public.

Evelyn was no different – most people would consider her to be reasonably attractive, maybe beyond that with the right clothes, hairstyle and make-up. The truth was that, at the age of about 13-14, it looked like she was going to become an usually beautiful woman. Hollywood beautiful, Sports Illustrated swimsuit beautiful -- stunning. But then Evelyn had developed an unfortunate case of adolescent acne and, by the time the zits had graduated to zit heaven, somehow her facial features had developed in an ever-so-slightly uncoordinated way. Nothing that you could put your finger on but, after the age of 16 or so, she only achieved her previous potential – her features only rhymed – when she smiled. At that specific moment, the moment of smiling, she could be truly and unabashedly stunning. But Evelyn hadn’t smiled much lately.

Other than that -- medium build, figure that was, as the more traditional personal ads say, appropriate for height, long dark hair – it was quite reasonable to expect that a guy would hit on her in a bar. (Hell, some guys would hit on Norm or Cliff in a bar.) That was why Evelyn generally wore a wedding ring when she stopped by the club – a cheap band that she had picked up in a flea market for just such an occasion. After all, one fucking bastard at a time was plenty.

But this guy was an overt pain in the ass, insistent and obnoxious. He was obviously not impressed by the wedding ring, and seemed to realize that a telephone number with a 555 exchange was a phony. It would have been nice, at least convenient, if there had been a knight in shining armor to shield her from this latest manifestation of fucking bastardism but, even more surprisingly perhaps, an unexpected substitute appeared.

“I see that you’ve met my wife”, Michel casually said to the man as he slid in between them. Michel rested his elbow on the bar and flexed his right bicep ever so slightly, but also ever so impressively. “So, honey, are you going to introduce me to your new friend?”

The jerk responded immediately. “Unfortunately, ah, I have to catch my bus. Maybe a rain check?” But the last sentence was barely audible, since the man had already begun to make his way to the door.

“Honey?” Evelyn said.

“Sorry. You didn’t really know the guy, did you?” She shook her head. “Good. I’ve been accused of not picking up on these cues all the time, but it did seem that you could use a little help with him. Sorry for the familiarity – the “honey” part. Probably kind of corny, huh?”

Evelyn smiled – for the first time in a while, she realized. Too long, maybe. “That’s OK. And thank you.”

“So. You come here often?”

She laughed. “OK. I didn’t mean to issue a permanent corniness permit. On the other hand, no . . . no, I guess I don’t want you to think that I spend a lot of time alone in bars, swigging Scotch and setting myself up as a target for every asshole who comes down the pike.”

“It’s none of my business, but I just figured that maybe there had been a. . . well, maybe, unpleasant moment with your real husband. Happens to everyone sometime. Nothing unusual there.”

Evelyn looked down at the fake wedding ring. “No, Michel. That’s a fake wedding ring. Or, then again, maybe it’s no more fake than I am.”

“Beginning to sound like maybe you do come here often. Why don’t you grab your drink and we’ll move to a table.”

Evelyn thought that was just about the lamest pick-up line that she had heard for a long time, but Michel was, well, he wasn’t the guy who had just been chased out of the bar. Maybe he was just as lonely as she was – hell, judging from the scars, he could probably match her hurt for hurt, even if the story of his pain was physical rather than emotional. Last but not least, the Scotch said, “Why not?”

But over the next hour or so, a really unexpected – no, make that remarkable – thing happened. Michel hadn’t tried to pick her up. He had joined her at the table with his freshly poured ginger ale, and spent the better part of an hour actually listening to her. Listening to a semi-drunken diatribe about how men sucked, how the fucking bastard sucked, how positive self-talk sucked and, most remarkably of all, a fairly detailed account of the pregnancy and abortion – and how they both most definitely sucked. And he sat there, not seeming to judge her, offering the occasional word of sympathy or encouragement, without once even remotely suggesting that his interest was in any way directly linked to his penis. Evelyn decided that Michel had to be either gay or a saint. Or maybe both: a gay saint. Either way, she didn’t care. She couldn’t believe that she was actually sharing all of this with this semi-total stranger, even as she continued to tell him everything.

So yes, Evelyn did have mixed feelings about Michel. She did see him as strange, but she was also embarrassed that she had told him things that were so totally personal and private. And she was grateful that he had been there that evening, both in terms of the jerk he had chased off and the way he had listened to her story. But seeing him also reminded her of that story, reminded her of the jerk and the fucking bastard, and reminded her of her inability to deal with either of them – or the abortion – by herself, And she felt guilty because she knew that she owed him, but also wished that he would just go away. It wasn’t fair, but it was true.

“Hi, Michel. This is a nice surprise. What brings you here?” Nice recovery, she complimented herself.