High Scorer
“I don’t get it,” She starts “I mean, I don’t know why I’m never even considered.”
They’re at the tiny Mexican restaurant he likes (veggie burrito for him, 2 taco dinner for her, he’ll finish her rice and beans later when she gets full), and she’s finally broached one of the reasons she suggested dinner tonight.
She needs his opinion. Or maybe just his validation.
“I’m attractive enough, I’m smart, I’m funny. And I’m totally cool. Like, I don’t freak out like the other girls, I don’t bitch when someone’s too busy to see me…I don’t act all needy and shit. And yet they never even think about me.” She toys a dribble of salsa over some rice. “I feel like I’m the pinch hitter. Like, I’m a really great pinch hitter. I always knock it out of the park. But no one ever picks me to start a game.”
“What exactly is it you’re looking for?” He asks.
“I don’t know. I mean, I’m not saying I need to “play a whole game,” but it’d be nice if someone would at least think about me playing a couple of innings. I don’t understand why that’s so inconceivable. Maybe it’s just an ego thing. I don’t necessarily want to play the whole game, but I want somebody to want me to.”
They focus on their dinner for a while, discussing other things in their lives. Plans to join the Peace Corps or go to Europe, difficulties with her job, the girl from San Francisco that’s coming to visit him over Thanksgiving.
As he finishes off her second taco and starts on the rice and beans (she wasn’t as hungry as she thought), she returns to the subject.
“Is it me? What am I doing wrong?” She twists a thin paper napkin into a mangled clump.
“Well, it’s like this…No one is going to draft you when they think you’re gonna quit the team as soon as they make you an offer.”
She sits quietly a moment. “That makes sense,” she says. They begin collecting the detritus of their meal, loading it back onto the plastic tray to deposit in the bin by the door. They stroll silently into the cold autumn mist, and he walks her to the bus stop.
“Thanks,” she says “That was nice.” “Yeah, I’ll see you on Thursday” (at the Thanksgiving party where she’ll meet the girl who’s coming to visit him). “Be careful,” he says, as he hugs her goodbye.
The bus is nearly empty, and she sits unseeing, thinking about what he said. She feels like there’s a decision to be made, but she doesn’t know what it is. When the bus halts two stops before the one that would take her home, she gets off. She walks two blocks to the bar where they know her, where she spends most of her nights.
She sits alone at the bar, chatting occasionally with the bartender. Ignoring the guy that ignored her first. During her second gin and tonic, she smiles at a boy ordering a drink. “I like your tattoo,” she says, running her finger down his bicep. She leans back and gives him a look that’s as much a challenge as enticement. In a few hours she’ll lie sleepless, staring at the boy’s ceiling and wonder if she’s made a decision or not.
Batter up.