NEW: Fiction Friday

at a lunch with a friend recently, she reminded me that I had hoped to spend more time on fiction than non-fiction with my writing, and ask the worst question in the world, "so, how's that going?"
She'll be punished.
With that, the next few weeks will be character sketches here on Fiction Fridays (posted on Saturday- what, you were never late?)
--

She isn't tall, she isn't thin, she isn't beautiful and without a calculator her math suffers (although she remembers life before calculators, so she isn't young, either). But she is and has always been smart about people. Brilliant, even. Especially about men.

At seventeen, her friends went on with "can you believe he said that? Did that?" and she realized that her first answer, "of course", wasn't the answer to keep her friends. And at twenty three she learned that her eye roll when another friend was tearing up about what an impossible man so-and-so was was never received well. Hours in the mirror helped her to learn to look compassionate, and concerned, and surprised, when her close friends went on (and on, and on) about this boy, or that boy, or the other boy, or occasionally this girl, or that girl. She was well versed in the occasional cluck, the drawn together lips, the furrowed brow. Playing the game was important.

She did care; she just wasn't surprised when men acted like men. Men treat women poorly, sometimes on purpose and sometimes for no reason. Being surprised about it was like being surprised when the sun came up or the fog rolled in. It's like toast popping up in the toaster- inevitable.

Finding a man was easy for her; it always had been. She has expectations, limits, rules and rewards. Her clarity and the ease with which she approached love and intimacy were always well received. So successful was she with men that it was always her who had to break up with him, whomever he happened t0 be. She had earned a reputation in town, and was all the more popular for it. Some women were jealous- what did she have that brought in the strong muscular (and always needy) types, or the wealthy and successful (and always seeking approval) types? Years ago she would have been branded a witch, a sorcerer, a gypsy with potions or some such.

When she had married, she had married to her advantage. Looking for men of means, with short attention spans and generous natures, had netted her two husbands who had helped her on the road to independence. The first husband, Gerald, paid off the college loans and left her with a bit of a nest egg when he left. His apologies were heart felt; she had let him down gently. Her second husband, John, was quite a bit more successful, quite a bit more generous, and quite a bit more guilt-wracked about his affair with his secretary.

She always knew it wasn't her; always knew that a man had to chase the next beautiful woman to come along; always knew that the only way to avoid death for him was to stay young forever. Youth favors a moving target. By the time she celebrated her thirty eighth birthday she knew that John wasn't long for her world, but had squirreled way enough to be comfortable, but not so much that he would have thought her callus and calculating when the discovery phase came around. She gave him her absolution and he gave her a substantial sum and a stipend and both walked away happy.

Finding her days empty, she wondered what she could do that might engage her. Another man seemed like a lot of work; a career felt like a marriage without a final settlement; and charity work appeared to be fraught with cheerful, bitter women with long tedious stories who wore silly shoes and unfortunate eye makeup. She wanted sanctuary, a safe place, a quiet room to think and not be disturbed too often by frivolous types.

She opened a bakery, downtown, across from a gym, next to a yogurt shop, and two doors down from a yoga studio. Who would be likely to wander through such a gauntlet for empty calories and chocolate sprinkles? Only her kind of people- women who had finally become themselves.