Women Drinking Benedictine Read Online Free PDF

nightmares.
    â€œYou’re a funny lady,” the man laughed.
    I’m not, she wanted to tell him. I’m not funny at all. I’m a middle-aged, maybe even old woman who makes ten dollars an hour for doing nothing. I wash my hair three times a week and when I get drunk on red wine I stand in the dining room watching the shadow of my reflection in my plate glass window and pretend I’m Fantine from Les Miserables . Some nights I sob when I finish my solo number. One time I fell into the breakfront and broke the creamer from my wedding china. I’m twenty pounds overweight and the last man I had sex with was a police officer who gave me a parking ticket three days after we slept together. My son, who is too ashamed or too afraid to admit that he is gay, though I’ve known since he was twelve years old and won first place in the neighborhood Easy-Bake-Oven-Cook-Off, brings pretend girlfriends when he visits. They stay for one cocktail, then leave, as if he thinks I’m bedridden and boring. I take myself out to dinner when I need cheering up. You can’t imagine how often a waitress can apologize for forgetting to put in your dinner order.
    â€œCynical maybe,” she admitted to the stranger. “People have even called me bitter, and though I’d like to, I can’t argue with that.”
    â€œYou’re not so bad-looking,” he said. He whistled when she stood on her toes to check the clock over the Unitarian church two blocks west of Walnut Street.
    â€œIt’s two o’clock,” Winnie said. She was in the mood for a tuna melt on rye at Pamela’s Country Kitchen. The waiter was a surly young man who hated working at the restaurant. He poured second and third cups of coffee without asking if she wanted refills. He never made small talk. He never asked her if everything was all right.
    â€œI need a favor.” The would-be thief unbuttoned his coat and fiddled with his tie. He did not exactly exude confidence, and Winnie could not imagine he was very successful in his ventures. His accent was Pittsburgh, but he was doing his best to hide this. He wore penny loafers with no socks, but the shoes were half a size too big, and the backs kept slipping off his foot. The leather made loud sucking noises every time he took a step.
    â€œI don’t think I can help you,” Winnie said. He kept looking at her. His gaze was not flirtatious, but calculating. He was sizing her up for something. She wanted him to know that she was most definitely the wrong size.
    â€œWhat have you got to lose if you listen to me?” he asked.
    â€œLunch,” she said.
    He shrugged as if her hunger was no big deal. “I want you to listen to me,” the man said. “That’s it. Just listen to me.”
    â€œListen to you?” Winnie asked.
    â€œYes, listen to me.”
    â€œIf you’re here to rob me, go ahead,” Winnie said. “The store’s insured big time. The stuff isn’t mine. I won’t put up a fight. You can tie me up, lock me in the dressing room, or let me roam the streets while you clear the place. There’s no reason for shenanigans or tall tales if what you’re really here for is to take the merchandise.”
    But it was his story he wanted her to hear.
    â€œIf you do nothing else for me,” he begged, “at least listen to my story.”
    She was irritated and hungry, but nodded for him to go ahead—she would listen. He looked around for a seat, but there was only one and she was sitting in it. He would have to stand to tell his tale.
    â€œI’m a cowboy,” he told her. “A real old-fashioned round-’em-up outlaw.” His accent became more southern.
    â€œI’m a drifter, a rambler, a loner, a solitary man. I march to the beat of a different drum. You know I’m not someone who can be expected to play by society’s rules. I’m just not like that.”
    â€œSo?”