“You really seem like a philosopher,” she said.

“What do you mean? What’s a philosopher like?” I asked, furrowing my brow.           

“Like, you’re brooding. Kind of dark, you know?”

Thanks,” I sneered.

“No, I like it. There’s no one like you in Iowa. None of the guys I know are thoughtful enough to be brooding,” she said, making me dread her comparing me to her hometown, presumably well built, farm boys. They probably all have arms the size of my legs, thick necks and of course large, all-American white teeth. Her teeth too, they’re perfect. She’s everything I’m not. Her fair skin is glorious, tanned and vibrant, which makes her all-American white teeth appear all-Americaner and her blonde hair seem blonder. Whereas I’m skinny, 140 pounds sopping wet with dark and disheveled hair and a pallid complexion, making my teeth look like the aforementioned manila envelopes by comparison despite my rigorous brushing. My teeth aren’t gross or anything, but they’re not all-American white. Anyway, I don’t brood. I don’t like that. I suppose I’d describe myself as disillusioned, bored and generally unimpressed, but not brooding or broodful or whatever the word might be.

“So, why’d you come out here? We’re a long way from Idaho.”



“To act,” she said as a kind of preface as she gathered her thoughts. Again, I don’t really care to hear her life story. Especially since, though we hit it off last night and got drunk enough that I convinced myself I could have her and she got drunk enough to allow herself to be convinced, she’ll undoubtedly drop me for some taller, more muscular, more obnoxious—though a confident obnoxiousness as opposed to my cynical obnoxiousness—pretty, blonde boy from California—they’re always from California—by the end of the first week of school. The thing is, girls like her don’t go for guys like me. It’s a fact of nature I’ve grudgingly accepted. Just because she’s lying naked next to me in my bed doesn’t mean I’m deluding myself into thinking that I can really hold on to a girl like her. So, I’m not particularly interested in hearing her talk, especially since she is only asking me questions that she secretly wants to answer about herself.

“This’ll sound silly,” she continued, “but I kind of feel like I’m following in the footsteps of Tierney Wakefield. I want to be a star, like her. I feel like I’m meant to be a star. We’re both from the Midwest. She’s from Illinois, right next to me. In fact, her hometown is really close to mine. Before she became a movie star, she came to New York to be a Broadway star and that’s what I want to do. Be on Broadway,” and then added bashfully, “It’s silly, I know.”

“No, not at all.” Yes. Yes it certainly is. She is just a starry-eyed country girl—I knew it. “You know, you kind of look like Tierney Wakefield.” She blushed. That is true though. Like I said, she’s really hot. She’s got that going for her. “And well, you’ve got the name for it. Alison Heart? Alison Heart, from the heartland. You sure you didn’t make that up? It sounds like a stage name.” She pulled out her driver’s license despite me. “Just ‘cause it’s on here, doesn’t mean you didn’t make it up,” I laughed, as she tried to grab her license back, but she couldn’t get it out of my hand. Raising my arm, keeping her license out of her reach and holding my other arm out to keep ashes from my cigarette off the bed, I inspected her ID more carefully.

“Hey, you’re not nineteen,” I chuckled as she sprung up to make another go at reclaiming her ID, but as she did, the blanket fell from her chest, exposing her pink breasts as they bounced up and down. They really are fantastic. With an embarrassed shriek, she sat back down and covered herself up, now blushing at like a DEFCON 1 level, as I continued laughing.

“Give it back.”

“Why would you lie about lying about your age? You told me in the bar that you’re nineteen, but never get carded and here you are, old enough to get in anyway,” I said, flicking her license back to her.

“You’re mean.”

“Oh, c’mon.” I was smug, but I had to be. I’m not going to let this beautiful country girl, with her first-team all-star, all-American white teeth, and clearly having some acting ability or she wouldn’t have got into the Actors Studio, her perfect breasts, and a perfect stage name, get away with anything, even something as ridiculous as a three-year age discrepancy, which, no doubt, means more to her than it does to me or anyone else, even though she was willing to sleep with me, because, frankly, she’s been given enough in life. And like I said, when she leaves me, it’ll be a little comforting to know that she too has at least some neuroses, even if they’re absurd, cute, little ones like her fear of being too old for show business at twenty-two or as she demonstrated last night, her inability to sip from a glass at the same point along the rim for fear of the germs she may catch from herself. And what is building up my confidence isn’t so much that I fucked this perfect girl and her all-American teeth, as that despite her perfect appearance, she also has some issues. This is important in the face of my many, many obvious shortcomings and potentially harmful neuroses. I have to latch onto whatever I can and try to even the playing field somewhat. It’s only fair.

The End

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