want another beautiful collaboration to love and cherish. THE END
THE LADY-KILLER AND THE MAN-EATER
They were the perfect match—if they could only stand the heat!
Brendan and I split up—again—two days before the auditions for Oklahoma at Heaven’s Hollow Community Theatre. I’d been trying to terminate this relationship for the past three weeks, but he kept pleading with me to continue going out with him, and I kept stupidly agreeing. This latest get-it-over-with conversation was not the most scintillating discussion I’ve ever had.
Let’s be honest: It was trite.
“Belinda, what’s with you? We’ve been dating for two months. I didn’t even know there was anything wrong and you turn around and dump me just in time for auditions for a show bound to have lots of guys in it. What’s the matter?”
“Brendan. We have never been exclusive. We went out. We had a good time. I’m not ready for anything else. We’ve been in the process of breaking up for three weeks now. Get a grip.”
“Please, Belinda. Just one more chance? Have I done something wrong?”
“No. Look, I’m just not great at long-term.”
I looked at his miserable face and relented, slightly.
“I mean, it’s not like we’re never going to see each other again. You know Corky’s gonna cast you in the show. We’ll be at rehearsals together. Okay?”
I knew it wasn’t going anywhere. Brendan was a wimp who let me do anything I pleased. There’s something about a man begging that’s a serious turnoff for me.
I’m not proud of what is undoubtedly a lacking in my character, but I find weak men boring. Neanderthal Man isn’t my ideal, either, but I at least want someone who won’t give in on every issue with me. After all, I’m not right all of the time, much as I might pretend to be!
And so, Brendan joined the list of last year’s castoffs, which included Jeremy, Todd, Fenton, and Rick.
Jeremy: Mr. “Marry me, Belinda, or we’re through.”
“I don’t think so, Jeremy—I’ve known you for a whopping two weeks.”
Todd: “My mother’s not going to be pleased with me dating a dancer.”
“Fine, Todd. Date your mother.”
Fenton: “But, Belinda, the enormity of this issue is life shattering! This legislation has to pass! By the way, I don’t think Chow and Chat is the best restaurant to be eating at. Didn’t I see a report on Channel 7 about them? No, wait—that was the report Fox News did about the congressman who’s in league with the meat packing industry.”
“Aargh! Enough with the politics and debates, Fenton! Let’s have one evening that doesn’t resemble a documentary or a commentary!”
Rick: “Why do you laugh, Belinda? What’s so funny about a man dressed up as a shark ringing apartment doors and hissing, ‘Land Shark’ at the people inside?”
“Rick, Rick, you gorgeous, blond, steely-blue-eyed, muscles-to-rival-Arnold, stud muffin. Why do you possess not an ounce of humor, along with not an ounce of fat? Does one cancel out the other? How can you watch originals of Saturday Night Live with Bill Murray, Chevy Chase, et al and not crack a smile? ‘Bye, Rick.”
Now, it actually felt nice to be unattached. I figured I might stay in that state for a while, actually.
At least a day or two longer.
As I sat waiting my turn to sing at the auditions, though, I found that I was musing about Rick, wondering if the old I Love Lucy tapes my mom had made the week she had insomnia might help him learn how to smile. Imagining his mouth muscles twitching as much as his biceps was making me a little weak in the knees. Alas, my daydreams were rudely interrupted by the heated conversation coming from a couple standing in the aisle two rows down from me.
She was a knockout. The kind of face and body I’ve always wanted—and would never have without ten years of plastic surgery and implants and a meat cleaver. Maybe five-one, with perfect blond curls, crystal blue eyes, a turned-up nose—she was a porcelain doll. My exact opposite. I’m five-nine, with straight brown hair and hazel eyes, and a jazz dancer’s body—basically, straight up and down.
The man she was arguing with reminded me a lot of my Irish setter, named Kooky for obvious reasons. He—the man, not the dog—looked familiar. He was well over six feet tall, with arms and legs that looked like they weren’t following where the rest of the body was leading. He had light brown hair and freckles splattered over a crooked nose. He was wearing an obnoxiously loud, yellow, Hawaiian-print shirt that clashed with his hair, faded jeans, and tan Hush Puppies with holes in the toes. The man’s sense of style was apparently rooted in comfort.
He and the mannequin were arguing. At least, she was. He didn’t even really appear to be listening to her. The attitude between them was, to one who’d been there, that of breaker with breakee at the beginning of the breakup. He was definitely the breaker. Her whole posture oozed: I’ll do anything for you. As her voice grew louder, I quickly realized that all of my observations had been correct.
“Finn! This is just not fair! We’ve been seeing each other for two months now, and I never knew there were any problems and now you want to just call it quits? Just in time for a show with a lot of female dancers in it, I notice!”
“Heidi, I never said we were exclusive. I also never led you to believe that there was anything serious going on on my part. I was never looking for a committed relationship; you know I’ve been trying to call a halt to this for the past three weeks. We had fun, though, so let’s not get carried away, okay? We’ll still see each other through this show. You know Corky’s gonna cast everybody here, so we’ll both be in it, no matter what.”
I couldn’t help it. I started to chuckle—loudly. What had this guy done—taped my last conversation with Brendan? While not Memorex, it was awfully close to an exact representation.
Heidi and Finn turned toward me when I started laughing. She glared. He grinned. The minute those white teeth flashed, I could see what Heidi was finding so attractive about this lanky puppy dog. Big green eyes danced with sheer wickedness. His expression was that of a very young angel caught smoking pot outside the Pearly Gates with an equally young devil!
Finn and I exchanged a glance only understood by two people who’ve just dumped their respective partners. I winked at him. He winked back.
“Belinda? Yo! Come onstage. You’re up.”
Corky, the director, was waving at me from the orchestra pit under the stage. I’d done three shows with Corky since moving here last year. He was maybe five-three—on a good day—with the face of a leprechaun, and the body of a tiny boxer. He’d had some sort of close relationship with the
