Instant Love by Jami Attenberg Page A

wasn’t kidding.
    “Listen, Gare, I don’t know if you should—”
    His head snapped up. “My name is not Gare.”
    His voice got loud, as if he were trying to be heard above the din, only there wasn’t any din, just he and I outside under the one star faintly blinking through the lights of the city. Or was it a plane?
    “It’s easy to skip that last syllable, I understand, but I hate it. My name is Gareth. It’s a bit odd, sure, but it’s a family name, and I like it. I’m big on tradition.”
    “Fine,” I said. I wanted him to calm down. I hadn’t anticipated any dramatic moments, and I didn’t like it.
    He leaned in closer. “Once, I went out with this girl and when she was trying to get me to do stuff she would call me Gare Bear, like that would win me over. And the only thing worse than ‘Gare’ is some sort of insinuation that I’m an animal, especially a large, scary, hairy animal.”
    “I understand,” I said.
    “Just—you know what? No nicknames at all. That’s what works best for me.”
    “No nicknames. Gotcha.” I picked up the menu again and stared hard at it. He tapped his fingers on the table. He tapped them sharply. “I’ve reconsidered,” I said. “I don’t want steak. I think I’ll have the veal after all.”
    “No steak?” he said. He hadn’t calmed down yet, but I think he could see where this was going. He was zooming in for a crash landing any minute.
    “No steak. I just have a taste for veal tonight, and when I set my mind to something there’s really no changing it.” I sucked my bottom lip in under my top teeth, squinted my eyes, and tried to look tough.
    Just then, the man with the yellow teeth walked up to our table with our bottle and began the wine service. “The steak is particularly good tonight,” he murmured to Gareth.
    And you know what? So was the veal.
     
     
    I DIDN ’ T SEE him for a few months. He e-mailed me a couple of times, once with a link to a study reporting a higher incidence of breast cancer in women who don’t give birth. Oh, I thought, so that’s the way it’s going to be? I responded with a link to an article proclaiming obesity a national epidemic, and then stopped replying to his e-mails after that. You can never know who is crueler, men or women. It depends on how strong your back is when it is pushed up against that wall.
    I went back to my old ways, and put my profile up on yet another Internet dating site. Usually I would return to the fold with great relish, spending hours poring through the other ads, e-mailing clever questions to attractive, employed men between the ages of thirty-two and forty, and constantly updating my ad with new pictures and hilarious stories about myself in order to maintain a fresh and intriguing profile. This was always the best part: getting attention without putting too much effort into it. I mean, yes, I spent hours a night at my computer, but I never had to actually leave my home.
    But eventually you had to meet them in person, and that was always disappointing. They always seemed exhausted, and not nearly as clever as in their e-mails. I’m sure I disappointed them, too. When they see “scientist” under occupation they think “sexy librarian” for some reason, but it’s not the same thing at all. Maybe it’s because I have glasses on in my picture, but I need those glasses to function. I’m not striving for a look—I’m practically blind.
    Occasionally I would sleep with one, just to prove that I still could do it. There is a particular kind of rage I can conjure up in my eyes when I choose, and when I fuel it with alcohol, I don’t need to say a word, they know they can have me for a night, for an hour, on their bed, in the bathroom at the back of the bar, on the couch in my living room. It’s only awkward right at the very beginning, when they’re a little surprised that it’s really going to be this easy, and then again at the end, when we’re saying good-bye. Because if I