Ruthless
When I was packing everything up for the move I found a faded polaroid of her between the cushions of the couch. I didn't think I had anything of her left. In the picture she's wearing a green dress, it doesn't suit her. It's the only time I can remember her wearing a dress. She wasn't a pretty girl. But pretty girls don't waste time on losers like me. Her homeliness was part of her charm. You couldn't help looking at her. She had freckles everywhere, big brown ones that almost covered her face. Her hands were large and mannish. She had thick, clumsy fingers and broad palms and tended to drop things. She had a wide gap between her teeth, and when she was thinking she'd coil her tongue in the space there. Just the thought of that little pink tongue slithering between those big square teeth still makes me hot. She was all angles and curves in places where there shouldn't be angles and curves. She was at home with herself in ways pretty girls never are. I never caught her making faces in a mirror. She didn't wear makeup or douse herself in perfumes. When we started fucking, she would sweat rivers and we'd slip around in the sheets like grunion on the shore. Afterwards, she'd make coffee. She made lousy coffee.
I ought to burn that picture. It's kind of a slug to the gut even after all these years. It's like Ruth's coffee, burns going down, doesn't sit right. Ruth. She didn't even have a pretty name. But sometimes when the wind blew cold and gritty, I'd hold her close and feel how warm she was and think everything was gonna be alright. I never said anything like "I love you" to her, wasn't raised that way. I grew up thinking a piece of pussy was nice if you could get it, but nothing to wreck yourself over. My pop tried his best, but I never learned how to deal with women who weren't whores. With hookers you know were you stand, you pay your money, you get off, they leave. I dated a couple of pretty girls, and there wasn't much difference in dating them and buying a whore. Maybe I had to be a little nicer, maybe it took a little longer before they put out. But in the end, it was bartering, I'd buy them things they wanted and I'd get off. They'd mumble shit about emotions and feelings and cry crocodile tears, but when it was all over, they were relieved. And I was too. The girls with cash register hearts and perfumed wrists are easy to understand. Ruth wasn't one.
We met at a Roller Derby bout. All-girls. The chick skaters are especially vicious and your blood sings when they pound each other into walls, slam elbows into ribs. They had two dollar beers, and I had a thirst. She was working the tent with the keg. She'd fill up the plastic cups quickly, with hardly any foam. I liked that. When I got to the front of the line she smiled her gaptoothed grin and said, "You don't look like a Pabst Blue Ribbon guy."
I didn't know what she meant. I wasn't any classier than any other joe around the rink and I started to think she was mocking me. I turn red when I get mad and my fists ball up tight. She saw this and laughed, "Hold on there. It wasn't an insult. Let's say I make it up to you by buying you this beer. And you can make it up to me by escorting me to dinner".
A girl had never asked me out before. After the bout we went to this all-night greasy spoon that served great apple pie. I don't remember much what we talked about. Three nights later we fucked the first time. A week after that she moved in.
Those five months together were sweet. I'd hurry home from my crappy, dead-end job just to see her. She'd burn something in the kitchen, and we'd go out for a walk and a hot dog from a vendor. We never talked about the future. She wasn't that kind of girl. I didn't buy her pretty things. I never felt like I had to. Sometimes we'd just sit together and not say anything. Those were the best times. Being together was enough for me. I'd like to think it was enough for her too, but when you look back on things, you don't get to allow yourself much in the way of illusion.
The last time I saw her, she was wearing that green dress. I bought a new polaroid camera on account of our trip to the coast I was planning for that weekend. I like to think she had a sadness about her. I said to her, "You look so beautiful today."
She smiled and said, "Don't you lie to me, Ernie."
But it wasn't all a lie. I just laughed and snapped that picture. Maybe I should have said something else, something romantic. But it wasn't our way. She had a purse with her. She never carried a purse. I remember, she looked at me funny and said something, I don't know what it was, but I'd like to think it was goodbye. Then the lights went black.
I don't know how long it was that I was out. The back of my head throbbed something fierce. She wasn't there. I sat on the couch and waited for her until the sun came up. She didn't come back. She never came back. I didn't think to report anything to the police until my bank statement came in the mail at the end of the month. She had wiped out my savings. Twenty-five thousand dollars that I'd been saving up to buy a house. Twenty-five Gs that I'd been thinking of spending on a house for me and Ruth. She never left a note. The police knew her though, she was a grifter, worked with a partner, her boyfriend. She took in lots of sadsacks like me. Usually ran confidence scams, but had been quiet for a while.
I'd like to think that she was trying to go straight. I'd like to believe that we had something there for a minute and she was forced back into her old life by that dickweed boyfriend. I'd like to think two lonely people had a moment together. But as I get older it gets harder and harder to lie to myself. We only ever believe what we want to believe. I don't know if I'd have fallen for her act for a minute if she was a blond bombshell with bedroom eyes. But she wasn't a pretty girl.
part of the wordmongers' masque