His Name and Her Name

At first, his name was Mark and he was the star of the baseball team looking for an easy first kiss and maybe more. But her mother raised her right, and surely he wasn’t going anywhere except a broken collarbone anyway? Next his name was Adam, a quiet, susceptible pair of gray eyes behind square glasses. He was always the first one to try to hold hands, like it was hard to walk without his hand sweating and an easy swing of the collective arm. But he was never enough to handle her, and he was holding on to a breakneck morning horse. Then his name was Antony, and Drake, and Adam again and Jess and Tom. Finally, his name was John, and John was a business major, and John was going places by God. He smiles and he phoned her sometimes and bought her diamonds which weren’t her birthstone, but John would hardly be expected to give his hard-earned money and time on a play or a concert or a bowling drunk. John had never been drunk in his life. He would, though, take her to a fancy dinner invited by his boss.

And then his name was Time, and Flowers and Freedom, and Dirt Roads and Flat Tires. Poetry, Homemade Dresses, Smell of Horse and Smell of Rain and Hot Chocolate. Wind in the Hair. Sometimes they didn’t even have names, but that was okay.

And then his name was Debt, dull and lurking around every single corner. His name was Worry – God, yes, sometimes Fear. His name was suddenly crushing Duty, and she thought of John with sudden, heart-rending longing.

The strip club was small, but relatively prestigious – no gaudy flashing neon signs. Underground of the Marquis, the hotel’s secret secret. Quiet businessmen – if drunk, not yelling to prove it – sat alone, surveying the horse flesh as pounding music oppressed most of the soft grunts borne of the true purpose here. The pole was cold and smelled of biting metal like goldfish. She hardly saw them but heard their breathing above the music. Tonight his name was Pleasure, and she was an actress on an unsteady stage.

“Shortcake, you’re up.”

“Thanks.” Irony had long been shampooed out of her dyed hair.

The private room was small, but it was hers. A chair overly comfortable. A pole on a s mall round stage. This was her domain.

The door opened, and then his name was John.

The only indication was the trembling of the stiletto, a soft click that could mean anything, against the smooth metal. John was oler. He could have worn the same damned business suit she’d ironed a hundred times, except that it was bigger to accommodate his frame. The door closed. His balding head came between her and the “Look. Enjoy. Don’t touch” sign smothered between some carefully chosen erotic art.

“What’s your name?” The chair whined and squeaked.

“Shortcake.” A stage name… A name he’d once called her…

His face shifted, flinching memories behind wrinkles and small folds of fat. Would he match the face of the stripper and win a price greater than or equal to a new Chevrolet?

“What’s your name handsome?”

As if she didn’t know. “John.” As if he didn’t know that she knew.

She danced for him. In the middle was a carefully placed move he used to like when he had the time to like anything at all.

“Amelia.” He said her name like a reprimand and like retribution.

Whatever else it did, it made her stop.

“Fuck… I knew it. Fuck.” A hand brushed through thinning, chocolate hair.

Ameila was beyond words at this lovely point. “You bastard.” Fifteen years in the making.

Either she didn’t deserve a response, or she scared his mouth shut. He didn’t even move to get up.

“I’m paying by the minute. Keep dancing.” What was his voice? Tired? Angry? Defensive? John. Knotty and maddening.

She danced. Her eyes met his like they never had.

At the very least, his name was not Regret.