The Mathematics of Being Alone
The coward broke up with you in an email? Cheryl exclaimed, rubbing Holland’s slumped shoulders.
Something to do with entropy, I think. It’s all ones and zeros, he said, or wrote. I knew things didn’t add up perfectly, but what the fuck is that about? Holland signaled the bartender for another round. He had a great face, she noticed, though she worried about the contents of his pants. How many men were missing things down there?
I got that too! Fucking ones and zeros. He’s truly a fraction of a man, Cheryl said, smiling at her friend. But Holland wasn’t anywhere near ready to laugh. Shit, I’m sorry, sweetie. That really sucks.
I swear, if I live to be a thousand, I’ll never understand men.
Me neither, babe, me neither, but for now, perhaps we should try to avoid dating the same one, ad infinitum. And I’m not just talking about Jake.
Holland half-smiled and huffed out a laugh. Smoothing down the wet corner of her cocktail napkin, she thought about how whenever she accidentally wore her worst underwear—the faded, nappy, holey, most unflattering old cotton things that she couldn’t throw away because they were too damn comfortable—out for the night instead of just around the house, she always got lucky. A sure thing. Men were magically attracted to her because there was no way she’d go home with them. Not while wearing those panties. Until she did.
Tracing clear lines with her finger into the foggy condensation of her glass, Holland watched the bubbles dance up to the surface. I’ve always thought I was an extraordinarily complicated woman, she said. Like, oh, poor me, no one will ever really understand me, right. But I realized recently that I’m not complicated. I just have a tendency to complicate things.
Cheryl nodded, fidgeting with her skinny red straw.
Also, Holland continued, I think I’m pregnant.
Cheryl almost choked on the bourbon she’d just taken into her mouth.
And baby makes…, she croaked, holding out three fingers, then pulling one back down.
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