"Can you come inside, please?"

Sandy paced back and forth by his truck, alternating which hand held his cigarette and which hand scratched his balls through his jean pocket. The day was pleasant enough, he thought. Regardless of the results, it was a nice enough day. Of all the doctors he and his wife had seen over the past couple of months, Sandy noticed that this particular office was eerily absent of trees. He felt awkward and exposed as he paced back and forth in the lot, scratching himself, waiting for her to emerge. Across the street was a little taco shop owned by people who had no knowledge of Mexican cuisine, but a strong appreciation for tequila. There might be time for a shot or two if he hurried. For all he knew, his wife was still in the waiting room.

They’d met at a party neither of them had particularly wanted to be at. His best friend, Porter, had just gone through a very civil divorce and Sandy, along with the other guys, had to pretend they understood why Porter was treating it like he’d lost everything. There were kegs and mosquitoes and a million other places Sandy would rather have been, but there he stood – in some stranger’s backyard with a warm beer in his hand and his Pity Party Porter in the other.

                “You are so fucking lucky, dude. You have no idea how fucking ruthless women are. Really. They suck your money through your dick, at first. Then they leave your dick out of it and still somehow find your money.” Porter sat down on an ice chest and motioned for Sandy to sit with him. The other guys were smart to mingle early. They didn’t have to deal with Porter’s nonsense. Sandy was too nice a guy to just ditch him, though. Reluctantly, he sat on the very corner of the ice chest and watched a silent movie of strangers parade in front of him while trying to lend a sympathetic ear to his friend.

                “See that chick over there?” Porter motioned his beer towards a middle-aged woman walking across the lawn to the Beer Pong tourney in the garage. “I could have fucked her while Lisa and I were still together. Her cheap ass husband never takes her anywhere. Look at this nice fucking house of his and he doesn’t take care of his woman. Cheap fucker…” Sandy had often heard the expression ‘biting one’s tongue’, but never had he actually done it. He bit his tongue so hard that Porter mistook his wince for judgement.

                “Hey! I don’t need your advice, Mr. Forever Alone. I’ll fuck who I want. I should have fucked her.” Porter stood up and walked towards the garage. Sandy took the opportunity to disappear and walked around the house to the driveway. His truck was parked on the sidewalk a little ways down from the front of the house. He put the tailgate down and swung his legs as he sat, wishing like hell that he had somewhere better to be.

                He didn’t see her right away. In fact, he wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting in the driveway before he snapped out of his daze to acknowledge her voice calling in his direction.

                “I said, ‘do you have a light’?” she called again.

Sandy hopped off his truck and fished around in his pockets. Retrieving his Zippo, he walked toward where the tiny figure was seated and extended his arm. She took a cigarette from behind her ear and thanked him from the side of her mouth while she lit her smoke. She was not instantly beautiful, he thought. She was a girl. Too thin for his liking, but the bagginess of her clothing seemed sort of cute. Her hair was very plain, as well. Kind of frizzy in the humid night air. It was dark brown and hung around her face, dangerously close to the burning cherry.

                “Zippo, huh? Classy. Too classy, in fact. I feel bad about not giving it back to you” she exhaled her first drag, causing him to take a step back as it drifted upwards towards his eyes. She shoved his lighter in her pocket and offered him a drag. She felt familiar, he thought. He liked that. He took a seat next to her and asked why she wasn’t partying with the others.

                “Are you kidding? I don’t even know half of those creatures. More than half, actually. My stupid friend is celebrating her negative pregnancy test by crashing a party full of strangers and I’m just along to make sure she doesn’t get raped.” Sandy’s eyes must have assumed some sort of guilt because she quickly followed that with, “Not by you, of course. You’re way too classy for rape. I can tell.”

He did not love her immediately. When they exchanged numbers, he sort of chalked her up to someone he might try to find clever things to say to, only to have her become bored with him, as most women did. But that isn’t what happened. Not at all.

The inner workings of women had always been a mystery to Sandy. More so now since her diagnosis. Since that day, he’d spent entirely too much time on WebMD and YouTube, reading up on how strange and disgusting and precarious the female reproductive organ really is. After one particularly lengthy info binge, he’d managed to start every sentence that morning with, “Did you know – “ Of course she knew. She knew better than anyone. But she still smiled that perfectly telling smile of hers and let him regurgitate all of his findings until he realized how stupid he must have sounded telling her the horrifying science behind normal things, like menstrual cycles. He’d done the same thing a month before the diagnosis when they found out she was pregnant.

                “I like the name Enzo” she’d said, as they waited for a specialist to discuss ‘something [they’d] found’ during her first visit with her OBGYN.

                “Enzo? Are you trying to get the kid beat up?”

                “Don’t say that; it’s a nice name”

                “It’s a goofy name. They’re going to call him Elmo or something and he’s going to blame us for it. Let’s just give him a regular person name and count on him being extraordinary.”

                “What? Like ‘Sandy’? You’re an adult for Christ’s sake. Get it fixed.”

She always had a way of making her point inescapably clear. What he wouldn’t give to go back to when a dorky name like Enzo was their biggest issue. 

She didn’t like letting him see her nervous or afraid. It’s why he was pacing outside instead of being in the dungeon with her. Holding her hand. Kissing her forehead. Something. Anything. Even when she had common colds, she’d hide away like a cat, not letting anyone see her less than 100%. She was stubborn and strong and he knew he needed to let her be. So he paced in the parking lot like a lost dog. As he shuffled his feet, he started to really come around on the name Enzo. In fact, he sort of loved it more and more. He would tell her so when she walked out, he thought to himself. He put the tailgate down on his truck and sat to give his legs a break. He wondered what they might name the kid if it were a girl. Enzo could be a unisex name. As he thought about what Enzo could be short for, an incoming text vibrated his pocket.

(End)