Until I Saw Your Smile (12 page)

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Authors: J.J. Murray

BOOK: Until I Saw Your Smile
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Chapter 10
O
n the ride to Madison Square Garden, Allison clasped Matthew's hands in hers. “You are so sweet.”
“I can't stand to see a woman cry,” Matthew said.
Such soft, small hands.
“You're a saint,” Allison said. “You're Saint Matthew.”
“Trust me, I'm not.”
I'm having lusty thoughts, even now. Very nice legs, slender fingers, and those eyes! She is lean and sexy.
“I'm no saint, Allison.”
“You are to me, Boo,” Allison cooed.
A pet name already? Hmm. This is sudden.
“Really, Allison, I'm not. I'm a lawyer.”
“You are? Wow! That's so cool!” She clutched his hands more tightly. “That is so cool. A lawyer, and only two days until Valentine's Day. My luck is changing for the better!”
And so is mine.
I hope.
At the TGIFriday's at Madison Square Garden, while Matthew picked at the Cajun shrimp, chicken strips, and baby back ribs on the Jack Daniels sampler, Allison ate only half of her chicken
piccata
pasta and sucked down two Heinekens before Matthew could finish half of his Sam Adams.
I've never seen a woman do that. Let's see if she can hold a conversation as well as she holds her beer.
“What do you do, Allison?”
“I'm a buyer,” Allison said, “well, a junior buyer for Bloomingdale's.”
Okay. She's educated, driven, has a job.
“Sounds exciting.”
“It's okay,” Allison said. “I can only afford to live in Williamsburg, though. I have to take the
bus
to work.”
She said that with disgust. What's wrong with riding the bus?
“I flat out
refuse
to take the subway,” Allison said. “There are far too many criminals on those trains, especially on the L train.”
Hmm. She's also slightly bigoted. I blame her upbringing.
“I ride the trains all the time, and nearly all of the people on them are just like you and me.”
“Sure they are,” Allison said.
Okay. She's more than slightly bigoted.
When their server walked by, Allison said, “Two more Heinies.” She smiled. “I'm thirsty.”
Matthew tore into his last rib, pausing only to wipe his face. He looked up to see Allison staring at him.
“You should chew your food thirty times,” she said.
“I thought we were in a hurry.” He looked up at the TV. “The Rangers are already losing three to one. The first period's nearly over.”
“That's no reason to choke to death,” Allison said, finishing beer number three. She planted her bottle in the middle of the table. “How do I look? And be honest.”
She certainly flits around in her conversations.
“You look . . . cute.”
“Thank you.”
“What's your heritage?”
Which is safer than asking, “Are you mixed?”
She tossed back her hair. “I get that question a lot. My father is black, and my mother is white. I am a blended human.”
“You're very pretty,” Matthew said.
“Oh, thank you, Boo.” She picked up and drank half of her fourth Heineken, waving her bottle at a passing server. “My last boyfriend, Tommy, the guy who stood me up tonight, he said I was too fat. Do you think I'm fat?”
“Not at all,” Matthew said. “Tommy needs glasses.”
“I told him to get an eye exam, but he never did.” She pulled up her shirt. “Do you like my stomach?”
That is the flattest stomach on earth.
“What's not to like?”
Now kindly cover yourself, Allison. You're getting lewd stares from the men at the bar.
Allison finished her fourth beer, leaving her stomach exposed. “It's hot in here, isn't it?”
It might have something to do with the amount of beer you've been drinking.
“Have you had your prostate checked?” Allison asked.
And now we're talking about my prostrate.
“What are you, forty?” Allison said.
“I'm thirty-five,” Matthew said.
“You should
really
get it checked,” Allison said. “My Uncle Jimmy had prostate cancer when
he
was forty. You kind of remind me of him. He's my mother's brother, not my
dad's
brother, of
course
.” She laughed loudly. “You don't look
anything
like my dad's brother!”
The men at the bar still stared.
“Oh, yeah,” Matthew said. “I kind of figured that.”
“Do you like children?” Allison asked.
From my prostate to children. I'm sure it's a logical sequence in her mind.
“Sure.”
“I want four little girls named Amaryllis Anne, Bethany Barbara, Carrie Clarissa, and Daphne Danielle,” Allison said. “You see what I just did with their names?”
“Not really,” Matthew said.
“I'm going to name my children
alphabetically,
” Allison said.
Oh yeah. Neat.
She drew the letter A in the air. “Amaryllis Anne. Two As in a row. Isn't that the most organized thing to do?”
Organized? Well . . .
“I guess.”
Allison gulped most of her fifth beer the moment the server brought it to her. “Oh, and they'll just
have
to go to school out on Long Island. They can't go to the
wretched
schools in Brooklyn.”
“They aren't that wretched,” Matthew said. “Some are quite excellent, especially the Catholic—”
“No, they aren't!” Allison interrupted. “Not compared to the ones in Manhasset. The
dumbest
kids in
my
school could be
valedictorians
in Brooklyn schools.”
Angela has a good ear for accents—and unhinged women.
“I don't know how
anyone
in Brooklyn can get a good job going to those schools,” Allison said.
The server brought her another beer.
That would be number six. I hope it stays full.
“No wonder Pfizer left,” Allison said. “They couldn't get any intelligent help.”
They actually weren't making enough money, but I won't argue with her.
“The Pfizer plant is coming back to life. Brooklyn Soda Works, McClure's Pickles, and Steve's Ice Cream have moved in. Have you ever had Kombucha? They make it there, too. It's really good.”
And better for you than
your
beer.
“Kom-what?”
“Kombucha is kind of like carbonated tea. It detoxes you and makes your intestines happy.”
And gives you a healthy buzz.
“Oh, and I want a big house,” Allison interrupted.
That was totally random. From kombucha to a big house.
“You like doing yard work, don't you, Boo?” Allison whined.
I could do without that whine, and please pull down your shirt! The man on the end of the bar has taken at least four pictures of your stomach with his cell phone.
“I've really never had a yard to tend.”
“You'll have to learn then, huh?” She finished beer number five and sipped from beer number six. “I can see you out there cutting our grass while I flower the weed garden.”
I will not correct her. That might be what she actually
does
in her garden.
Allison drained her sixth beer. “This is so exciting. Oh, we need to
go.
” She threw three twenties onto the table, her shirt finally covering her stomach. “Come on! We're missing the game!”
They weren't good seats. They were
great
seats, in VIP Rinkside section 4 a sneeze from the scratched and scuffed Plexiglas.
These seats cost at least nine hundred bucks apiece! Bloomingdale's must pay very well.
“These are great seats, Allison,” Matthew said, watching the action.
“Kick some Bruin
ass,
Rangers!” Allison yelled. “Did you say something, Boo?”
“No.”
“Take his stupid head off!” Allison yelled while pounding on the Plexiglas.
I'm sure Allison also likes WWF and MMA.
She stood and blocked the view of the couple directly behind them. “I dated . . . that one. Number ninety-eight.”
“Down in front!” someone yelled behind them.
Allison sat. “He's Canadian. He was very nice, but he's not as nice as you are, Boo. Oh, but he drank too much Molson. He said Heineken tasted like pee. You don't drink Molson, do you, Boo?”
“No, I—”
“I need another one.” She flagged down a vendor and sucked one down while paying for three more. “For me and my friend,” she told the vendor.
Matthew had to show his ID.
Matthew would never get a sip of those beers.
Allison set her cups down and pounded on the glass. “C'mon, Rangers! Kick some Bruin
ass!
”
Whenever players zipped by the boards, Allison went off, slamming her fists into the Plexiglas and cursing. When a fight broke out in front of her, she nearly climbed over the glass to join them.
Matthew calmly held her hips and brought her back to her seat.
A few men behind him groaned. Allison had given them all an outstanding view of her booty.
She's rabid, drunk, bigoted, and looking for a husband who does yard work. Her fists have become bruises. If I had let her finish her climb, she would have gotten on SportsCenter. Yeah, I know how to pick 'em. I should have listened to Angela.
When the Rangers fell behind 6–2 late in the third period, Allison started booing loudly and tried to get the fans around her to join her.
They wouldn't.
How do I get out of this? Do I put her in a cab and hope she gets home okay? I can't do that.
The game ended.
Allison tried to get number 98's attention, but he quickly skated away.
I know what you mean, man.
Matthew guided Allison out of the Garden to a cab.
“Allison, where do you live?” Matthew whispered once he had gotten her to sit up in the cab.
Allison looked at him through bleary eyes. “Aren't we going to your place?” She pawed at his leg and missed.
Several times.
“I'd much rather see yours,” Matthew said.
Allison licked her lips in what she might have thought was a suggestive manner.
It wasn't.
She looks like
I
look after getting a cavity filled at the dentist.
“I'd like to show you yours,” Allison said, giggling, “as long as you show me mine.”
Fortunately for Matthew and perhaps unfortunately for the driver, Allison passed out with her next breath.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“One sec.” Matthew dug into Allison's purse and found her ID. “Two-forty-one Wythe Avenue in Williamsburg. And please take the L-I-E to 278.”
“I hear you,” the driver said.
Twenty minutes later, Matthew hauled Allison up the stairs of an anonymous apartment building, found her keys in her purse, tried twelve keys before finding the right one, and opened her apartment door. He hoisted her onto an all-white couch and found a light.
Ho . . . lee . . . shit!
“Isn't this an apartment to die for?” Allison said.
Maybe to die
in
. This is Martha Stewart's apartment. Everything is white, even the floors.
He stared at several white bookcases crammed with hundreds of white photo albums. He looked at the white carpet under his feet.
Who would put down white carpet everywhere, even in the kitchen?
Allison lurched to her feet. “I'm just going to something into slip more comfortable, Boo.” She giggled. “I said something into slip! Ha! I meant, I'm going to slip into something more comfortable. You sit there and wait on Mommy.”
I need to leave, I need to leave, I need to leave . . .
Matthew heard her fall heavily twice.
He heard her giggle twice.
He heard a door open and shut.
Maybe she's gone to sleep. Should I leave now? I'm kind of curious what she'll wear. Probably something white.
He heard a door open. He looked into the kitchen and saw her.
Oh . . . my.
Allison returned wearing only a gray sweatshirt pulled off one shoulder and some red high heels worn over footy socks. She settled to the floor in front of him and struck up a pose.
I am seeing a scene from
Flashdance
. Does she honestly think she's Jennifer Beals? I wish I had a camera.
“You like what you see, Boo?” Allison asked.
You're sexy as hell, yes, but really—footy socks and high heels?
“Maybe we should get you into bed now, okay?”
“Bed. Oh, yes. We are going to have such a good time.” She reached up both arms. “Help me, Boo.”
Matthew helped her to her feet, and she slumped into him.
“Carry me,” she whined.
Matthew swung one arm under her legs and lifted her, one of the high heels clattering to the floor. He carried her into her completely white bedroom, and by the time he put her under her bright white covers, she was snoring, her Heineken breath smelling slightly like, well, pee.

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