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Show Woodworth/19^ she wonders, trying to remember what Rachael said. Oh. About him. Oh. Yes. That's the question. Do I care about him. "Yes, I care," she says softly, carefully. A woman's love. He can lose himself in it. But that isn't the right answer. The table continues to wait in silence, timeless, for her to put things right. What's she supposed to say? She can't remember. The feeling of control is gone, the one for one exchange of lines left behind. Rachael. Rachael should know what to say. "Men are so fucking hung up about their dicks," Rachael says. The vividness of her language startles Warren into embarrassed laughter. Relief floods over her, palpable as a warm quilt in winter. "Some men," Gary says, and Warren stops his titter. "Some men, that's the only thing that concerns them. Look at some of the guys in this room," he says, and they all look obediently around the bar. "They get all dressed up so they look like faggots. Have their hair done at beauty salons. Probably have their nails done, too. And then come to a place like this, and pretend that they are trying to attract women. Looks to me more like guys like that are trying to attract each other." Warren seems to have turned to smoke inside his pressed jacket, under his coiffed hair. "It's just the style now," he says. "No body dresses like a hippie any more." "I'm not saying that they know they are out after each other. But I bet they are closet queens. I bet that's why a lot of guys who come in here don't score." He leans forward, and drops his arm around Rachael's shoulder again. "I bet it's because they don't really want to." "See, you're just being old-fashioned," Warren says. His |
