Losing Charity

Losing Charity - 21

"Oh?"

"Oh. That date. Sure." I shrug. "It was all right."

"All right?" Molly makes a face like I just slapped her with a halibut. "All right? Barbat? Hello? What happened to 'It's going so very very very well that I'm going to shut off my phone and ignore your texts all night'? Hmm?"

I don't actually remember that.

My chin twitches back and forth in reflexive denial. "I didn't shut off my phone," I say.

"So just the ignoring then?" Molly parks herself in her favorite spot on the couch under my loft bed, knees together at a slant, which is the way she sits when she wears boots.

She is wearing the boots I knew she was wearing, the knee-high brown Italian leather ones with the strap and buckle harness design. Not exactly cowboy boots, not exactly – too elegant – but rugged enough they could be cowboy boots if they wanted. You could ride the range in these boots and not be embarrassed.

Or the 4-5-6, which is more likely.

Mols cradles her coffee in both hands. She takes a long sip, eyeing me expectantly.

"What? No," I say, defensive. My gaze darts to the shelf where I usually park my phone to charge it. It's not there. Only the forlorn end of the charger cord dangles, disconnected and dejected.

I frown. I always plug in my phone when I get home. I have to, or it won't make it through the next day.

I find last night's purse, the black beaded clutch, atop the white chest of drawers opposite Molly. I pop the snap and pluck out my phone.

It's not on.

Molly raises one knowing and accusing and perfectly shaped eyebrow.

"I didn't turn it off, I swear!"

I press the power button. No response.

"Dead battery!" I say, like this answers all her unspoken accusations.

I plug the phone in and join Molly on the tiny couch. There is barely room. We sit at an awkward angle to both fit, but this is a skill we've mastered because there is nowhere else to sit in my animal cracker box of a home. Except the floor.

"Never mind the phone," says Molly. "Details. Give."

She leans forward, eager. Puts her hand on my knee, briefly.

"There isn't much to tell," I say. "It was a forgettable evening."

That's for sure. I remember that I had a date with a Mr. Peter Sutaf last night. I picture his rich, handsome, rich, smiling face in my mind's eye. But that's about it. I recall nothing particular about the date itself.

"Forgettable? Barbat?" Molly is not having it. "What did you order?"

"Not the lobster."

She gives her little impatient hand wave. "What then?"

"Salad." I think I had salad.

"Salad? Only salad?"

"Only salad." I'm pretty sure I had salad.

"Who goes to Barbat and has only salad?"

"Uh ... me?"

"You're lying."

"Why would I lie about that?" I could be lying. I'm not sure.

I'm probably lying.

"What was he like then, this Peter Sutaf?"