2 Written by Melanny Cowley

    When I finish sketching my childhood, Glen says, “I’m glad you feel comfortable sharing all of this with me. We’ve made a big breakthrough I think. You haven’t eaten anything.”
I look down at the ribs and brisket. It looks gory.
    “No, I haven’t,” I say.
    “Well, make sure you get a box and take it home. You can eat it tomorrow. It really was excellent. You should have had some,” he says.
    When the waiter brings the check, Glen slips in his credit card, then explains to the waiter that his date did not eat her meal (as though the waiter could not deduce this on his own) and asks for the box.
    Glen wears cowboy boots when we go out in the evenings. They look ridiculous to me in New York, but I suppose they distinguish him. Glen becomes “that guy in the cowboy boots.” The sound of the wooden heels clopping reminds me of horse hooves. People turn their heads towards his horse-shoe clopping, and I think that’s the point. I stare at the gray scaliness of the faux snakeskin as we walk to the subway.  My own shoes, black one-inch heels, look dull disappearing under flaps of my lavender skirt, and I want something more exciting on my feet, realizing Glen has grown on me. We’re safe together.  Safer than I would be if I wasn’t with him. If I was left to myself.
    The fluorescent lights of the subway, both dull and bright, illuminate the benches of the car. I slump easily into a seat, the sight of which made me feel weak. Glen grabs a pole and remains standing beside me, crossing a pointed toe behind one leg.
    “Was it upsetting? Talking about your past?” he asks me.
    “Not really,” I say.
    “Good.” The brakes screech on the next stop, and I shudder.

Posted on November 7th, 2008 in Fiction