They remind him of those girls from that John Updike story, the one about the guy in the supermarket. It’s really great, although the title of it doesn’t come easily to mind. It has the same name as one of those East Coast stores, probably because he’s from up around there. Updike. True, this is a bookstore he’s in and there are only two of them—girls, that is—and Updike’s little tale had three, but they are the same kind of breed. Cut from the same cloth, as it were. After all, girls will be girls will be girls.
They are both wearing their start-of-summer gear, featuring a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers. Soon, as the days drag on and the heat starts to get at them, they’ll trade this in for tank tops or swimsuits, probably the same shorts—they both wear the cute, girlie kind that’s too short and tight for their own good—and flip-flops. But for now, right now, they are content with this. This “look.” Besides, neither one seems brave enough to attempt a solo run, a dash for the summit. No. Each outfit appears to have been carefully selected by a committee of two through a series of elaborate phone calls or e-mails that allows for no mishap. In other words, they know exactly what they’re doing.
That’s what he’s thinking, anyway, standing there just off to the side and pretending to read Art in America as he studies the tall one’s legs. Well, perhaps “study” is too strong a word for what he’s doing. That would seem to imply an intense, open sort of examination of his subject, all in the name of science or some other significant goal. No, staring might be more like it. The covert kind of staring, to be precise, of the type practiced by middle-aged men who have no real business or purpose for being in a Barnes & Noble on a Thursday afternoon. That’s what he’s doing. Staring.
It’s not her legs, per se, that interest him, although they are fine and long and brown. Like the gangly appendages of a newborn colt or that one black runner who won a gold medal or two a few years back. He can’t recall her name right now, but this gal’s lower half is a bit like hers. Or, better yet, like that young woman who lives catty-corner to his house, the one whose parents recently divorced and her mother moved across town so he sees her less frequently now. The daughter, that is. This girl’s legs are just like hers. Full of life and youth and promise.
Except for the cut, of course. That’s what makes them different. Helps them stand out. It’s not a fresh wound, no, but more like a week old or so. He’s no authority, obviously, but if he had to venture a guess, say, found himself on a game show with a new Volvo on the line, then he’d probably say a week. What leads him to this, this guess, is the color of the scabbing and the general state of the mark. See, she’s already been scratching at the thing, picking at it while she’s been on the phone or watching the Disney Channel.
Even now her hand keeps creeping down and flicking at the thin red gash, pulling off bits of skin and blood and rolling them slowly between her thumb and middle finger. And it’s white beneath. That’s his clue, you see. The flesh is pure and white in the area where she works, leading him to conclude that the abrasion is nearly healed. She is almost whole again. Only the scratching at it betrays her, which is what initially caught his attention. When it did, he quickly replaced the Maxim back into its space and drifted over toward the girls. The Art in America was simply picked up on the fly. As cover.
He checks himself quickly in the window across the way, moving a bit to one side to get a better look. Out from behind the backward “Noble” painted on the glass. He smiles at his own outline, flashing a mouthful of store-bought teeth. Well, he didn’t actually buy the teeth themselves but has purchased the braces that cover them. The clear kind, those little strips of plastic that are only noticeable when you get close enough. From a distance you can barely tell. Barely. He checks one last time—in the hazy reflection, it simply looks as if he forgot to brush this morning—and then moves back to lean on the magazine shelf.
No cheap wire racks in a place like this, either. No. These magazines are all kept on lovely wooden shelves. Except for the “gentlemen’s issues,” of course, which are held behind the counter and wrapped in heavy plastic. Which is fine by him, since that’s where they belong. And anyhow, if he were to feel the need to make a purchase like that—only a Playboy or something equally harmless, never the hard stuff—then he would motor on down to 7-Eleven like any grown man would do and pick up some aspirin or a snack cake or hot sandwich beforehand like it’s meant to be done. The magazine in question would simply be an afterthought. Just for fun.
These girls, however, are more than that. Fun. No, this is serious business and he treats it as such. Hunter and prey have a healthy respect for one another, at least in his mind. From where he’s standing, these two young ladies are the be-all and end-all of his happy little Thursday. A day out of the office and what a nice surprise this is turning out to be. A smile begins to creep over his face but he quietly tucks it back inside his mouth. He doesn’t want a thing like that to give him away—too many housewives and protective mothers wandering the place to let that happen. He chomps down hard on the fleshy part of his tongue, really digging in with his teeth, and the grin begins to fade. Suddenly, he’s back in business.
A drop of blood has gathered on her calf now, at the top of the wound. Nothing very alarming, mind you, simply a spot of red that has gone unchecked for the last few minutes. In fact, you’d really have to be looking to even notice it. But then that’s what he’s doing, of course. Gawking. He’s moved beyond staring, you see, shifted into third, and shot right past staring on the straightaway. He is openly gawking now, and it’s anybody’s guess how long he can keep it up. He does realize this, of course; he’s been doing this long enough to know when he’s merely staring and when it becomes more than that. When it makes its way over into the realm of something really special. And this young lady, with her delicious limbs curled up beneath her brushed metal chair, is about as special as any person could ever hope to be. So, so special.
An argument erupts at the checkout stand and the man snaps his head around, sensing that his time is almost up. The raised voices up front belong to his wife—well, one of them, anyway. Sometimes it sounds like she has two voices, actually, the noise that emits from her. It would be hard for anyone, at least the casual passer-by, to believe that so much volume could come from a single person, but he knows better. Oh yes. It’s her, all right. He can just make out the finer points of the discussion, something about her Reader’s Advantage card being expired and “Would you care to extend your buying power at this time?” or something like that. All he knows is that she, his wife, keeps saying no very loudly and heads are starting to turn. Not the girls, thankfully, as they keep sucking on the straws of their very grown-up iced coffees—to be fair, they’re covered in whipped cream and chocolate jimmies—and pointing at photos in an issue of YM.
The girl in question takes another dig at her leg and he realizes, very lucidly, that it is pretty much now or never. A flash goes off in his head, a snapshot of a film that he saw years ago, in college maybe, of a man obsessed with a young woman’s leg. Her knee or something. One of those French or Italian kinds, where not much happens and the words are carefully printed all along the bottom of the screen. It was one of those. He can’t recall much else about it, except that this perfectly respectable guy is dying to touch some blond girl’s leg. Various other hijinks ensue along the way, no doubt, but that’s the plot in a nutshell—an older fellow touching the leg of this youngster. And it happens, he touches it, so at least it had a happy ending. He doesn’t know all that much about foreign films, but the ones that he’s seen often seem to end badly. Maybe that’s why he remembers this one; the conclusion is a happy affair.
The coins spill from his hand in a casual enough manner. They hit the faux marble and scatter in a predictable pattern, shooting off in various directions. Thankfully, the lion’s share darts beneath the feet of the two girls and comes to rest with a twirl and a flip. One or two continue to cartwheel about, but most drop faceup and wait quietly. The man lets out an audible “Damn!” to cover his tracks, then scoots sheepishly across the no-man’s-land between himself and the teenagers. Drops to his knees in a penitent gesture, hands held palm up. The girls giggle and smile down at him, rolling their eyes with exaggeration in case any boys happen to be passing. He returns their smiles and gets down to the business of gathering up his money. The other girl, who is shorter than her compatriot and heavily freckled, points at her own mouth and mimes the word “braces.” The other gal nods and smiles again, laughing into her hand.
He knows what’s going on up there, the silent little game they’re playing at his expense, but he is unfazed. So close to the prize now as he is. He looks up again into her eyes—his intended—and adds another smile into the mix as he reaches farther beneath her chair. One hand resting on the edge of her cushioned seat for support. He makes a meal out of this last gesture, really straining to get the maximum impact as his hand drifts over to her calf. Lands there for just an instant. Only a second, but it’s enough. Oh yes. The odd thing is, what really throws him, is how she handles the situation. As his fingers trace the dimpled mountain range of her sore, drifting across the jagged flesh as it works to repair itself, there is no reaction from the young lady. Well, that’s not completely true. She glances down at him—knowing full well what he’s doing now—and meets his gaze dead-on. Time seems to stop for a moment, or at least to stutter along like one of those overblown special effects they use in movies these days, as they look at each other. Tick, tick, tick. He can even hear the sweep of the second hand on her Swatch as it’s happening. He dares to make one last pass over the boo-boo as he snags an errant dime, then staggers to his feet and bows—a strange little gesture, to be sure—while he backs away. This time, though, only one of the girls is smiling. The tall one, the one with the wound, is just staring at him. Lips parted in a slight but obvious way. To call it inviting might be stretching it, but there’s something going on between them. Man and girl. Yes, indeed. Without question.
The moment is broken only by the shrill cry of “Sweetie!” near the front doors, repeated over and over. Like the fierce screech of a tropical bird it rises, above the sound of Barry Manilow’s “Mandy,” which filters politely in over the public address system. In unison, the girls crane their necks in the direction of the exit to see what all the fuss is about, and the man uses this moment to retreat. He darts back behind the women’s magazines and starts stumbling off toward the sound of that voice, grabbing desperately at an issue of Popular Mechanics as he passes. Making a beeline toward the sleepy-eyed boy at the nearest cash register. Hoping that this will be enough to cover his tracks.