Engaging Men. Lynda Curnyn

one overzealous suitor even followed me home from Lee and Laurie one night, trying to get my phone number. Kirk, who had been waiting out on the stoop for me (yes, there was a time when he did that), had found the whole thing quite amusing.

      “That’s because he didn’t see the guy as a serious threat,” Michelle advised. “You need to bring on the heavy artillery.”

      I looked at her. “Heavy artillery?”

      “Yeah. You need to show him some other guy is serious about you,” she said, her eyes narrowing speculatively. Then, realization lit her face. “Flowers,” she said. “You need to get flowers from another guy.”

      “What other guy is going to send me flowers?” I said, going through my catalog of men and coming up short. The only man who’d ever bought me flowers was Randy, romantic that he was. But Randy had been married for five years, and was not inclined to buy me anything nowadays except the odd drink whenever we happened to get together.

      “That’s the beauty of this plan,” Michelle said. “You don’t need another guy. You can send the flowers yourself.”

      “Myself?” This plan was starting to seem ridiculous. And expensive. “Do I sign the card from myself, too?” I asked.

      “No, no,” she said, shaking her head at me as if I were the insane one. Then her dark eyes lit up, as if my faux Prince Charming had just stepped into the bar. I even turned my head to see if, in fact, there was some bouquet-wielding charmer waiting in the doorway. Then swung it back just as quickly when I heard her say, “Jerry Landry.”

      “Jerry Landry?” I asked, incredulous. Jerry was our boss and—at least according to his calculation—the Office Stud. He made a point of hitting on every available woman—and even some of the unavailable ones, depending on how short they happened to wear their skirts—who worked for Lee and Laurie Catalog. It was rumored that he slept with at least fifty percent of the incoming trainees, but I had a feeling Jerry himself started these rumors. Because although we all laughed at his stupid jokes and even batted our lashes playfully at his off-the-mark flirtations (after all, he was the man monitoring both our phone calls and our break times), I seriously doubted any woman in her right mind would find him attractive. Maybe it was the amount of Brylcreem he used to get his suspiciously dark hair (suspicious for a forty-two-year old with gray chest hairs peeking out beneath his oft unbuttoned collars) slicked back, guido-style (hello? The eighties are over, Jerry). Whatever it was, something made Jerry utterly unappealing to most of the female population. Men, however, thought he was the greatest. Probably because he was the one buying the rounds during those rare after-office outings. And because the guys actually believed all those conquest stories he told. Even Kirk had, during his short stint at Lee and Laurie. So much so that, on more than one occasion, he had sidled possessively toward my cubicle when Jerry was leaning over me, giving me his usual schtick while trying to look down my shirt. Hmm, maybe Michelle wasn’t so far off in this far-off scheme of hers….

      Then I remembered that it wouldn’t be Jerry’s credit card that took the hit. “How do you propose I pay for these flowers?”

      “Look,” she said, “do you want to land this guy or what?”

      Apparently, I did. Because suddenly I was willing to forgo that seventy-eight-dollar pair of pants I had been coveting in the Lee and Laurie Catalog (that was the other problem with this job—it fed my shopping disease) for the sake of my future.

      That’s when I got caught. No, not by Kirk. By Justin. Which seemed worse, somehow.

      I was on the phone ordering flowers for myself. I know, I know. Stupid, right? On my budget I was the last person who should’ve been dialing up for a dozen long-stems, but I was a different woman. I didn’t even recognize me. The thing is, I had invited Kirk over to my place for our usual Friday night together and, according to Michelle, I had to undo some of the damage I had done by sleeping with him with a quick follow-up maneuver.

      So, I’m on the phone, ordering up flowers from Murray’s 24-Hour Florist—New York City is probably the only place in the world where you can get anything delivered at just about any time. It’s this type of convenience that makes a girl capable of anything, right? And I wouldn’t have felt so bad about my behavior if Justin hadn’t strolled through the door just after I had handed over my credit card number.

      “…if you could deliver those flowers promptly, I would appreciate it. Thanks.”

      “Who died?” Justin asked, heading for sofa #3 (he always developed an especial fondness for the newest sofa as if to prove to me, and the rest of the world, the worthiness of salvaging it) and picking up the remote.

      “Died?” I asked, puzzled, as I hung up the phone.

      “Didn’t I just hear you ordering flowers?” he said, his gaze seeming somewhat speculative despite the way he was already cruising through the TV channels.

      Humiliation shot through me. Then panic. Justin wasn’t supposed to be home tonight. Fridays he often frequented the open-mike night at the Back Fence, watching musicians try out their material and, I imagined, gathering the courage to get up there himself. Or something. Because ever since he had left film, and then acting, ostensibly to pursue music, he seemed to have lost his energy to do anything but strum a few chords on his guitar now and then as he gazed dreamily at his assorted artifacts around the apartment. The only reason I knew he was still pursuing anything was his vigilant attendance of Friday night’s open mike. It was one of the reasons I had picked tonight for this wretched little plot. I didn’t even want to bear witness to what I was about to do, and I certainly didn’t want one of my best friends to. “Aren’t you going to the Back Fence tonight?” I inquired, ignoring the fact that he had settled on a program and sunk deeper into the sofa.

      “Nah. I’m beat,” Justin said. After a few moments, he finally looked up at me, probably because I was hovering over him, anxiously trying to figure out a way to get him out of the apartment. It wasn’t so much the fact that Kirk was coming over. After all, Kirk had accepted Justin’s presence in my life, albeit grudgingly. It was just that I was absolutely appalled at the idea of Justin discovering my plot to win Kirk’s pledge of undying love.

      “What’s up?” he asked, studying me with concern.

      “Nothing!” I protested, completely blowing my cover. Then I glanced up at him from where I had begun to pick at a nonexistent piece of lint on the sofa. “It’s just that…Kirk’s coming over.”

      “Oh yeah?” he replied with some measure of surprise. It wasn’t that Kirk never came over, it was just that we spent more time at his place. Probably because of my roommate factor, but I feared mostly because of my (or should I say “our,” meaning Justin’s and my) clutter factor. Kirk had a decided distaste for the disorder Justin and I so willingly chose to live in, and when he was here, he couldn’t help but point out the problems that resulted from irregular removal of recyclables (I had an increasingly bad habit of saving all the newspapers, magazines and trade papers I never seemed to get around to, in the hope that I would, one day, get around to them) and accumulation of other people’s irretrievables (You-know-who was responsible for that). I couldn’t help but agree with Kirk. There was something wrong with living with six lamps, three sofas and a stack of newspapers and magazines that rivaled the periodical room of the New York Public Library.

      “Anyway, I was gonna cook him dinner.”

      This got a raised eyebrow.

      “What?” I said.

      “Nothing,” he replied, turning his attention back to the TV. But I knew he was thinking of the time I threw a dinner party for all our friends, which was nothing short of disaster. Thank God, Justin had come to the rescue and pulled together a quick pasta fagioli. For a guy from the Midwest who was a mixture of every ethnicity except Italian—English, French and even a dash of some sort of Scandinavian—he certainly had a way with Italian cuisine. It was as if he had inherited the Italian gene that I hadn’t. “You need help?” he asked as I continued to stand there looking at him uncertainly.

      “Not