Dump and Chase. Elizabet Young

his hand from the air. He is a friend of Kendra, and that is precisely why she and Ken are seated immediately—well before the angry and hypoglycemic hordes cursing out the hostess.

      Ken and Kendra share a spacious booth just before the most massive flat screen, and Kendra, with her back to the television, cranes to view the Bruins game. He thinks of telling her how rude she's being. After all, if he were transfixed by the TV, she would correct him. As his girlfriend coach, she teaches him how to be polite to his date. She teaches him how to compliment and how to properly accept a compliment. She teaches him how to start a conversation and how to tactfully back out of an inappropriate conversation inadvertently started. And she teaches him how not to space out and stare at her chest while she's talking, though he desperately wants to.

      He plucks two breadsticks from the basket and tells her that she's breaking one of her own rules.

      She turns to face him again and sighs. “It's the playoffs, Ken.”

      He butters one of the breadsticks before chomping on it. “Should that matter?”

      “Don't talk with your mouth full. And yes,” she says, “certain games are exempt from ‘Rule 27: Attention must not be paid to television programs during dinner.’”

      “I didn't know that.”

      “It's in the handbook. Addendum 27.1 finds television programs, including commercials, to be potential conversation starters in the event of awkward silence, which has happened here,” she says, tapping her forefinger on the table. “Furthermore, 27.2 clearly states that certain games, including any postseason NFL game, any game of the ALCS, NLCS, or World Series, any game of the Eastern or Western Conference Finals for both the NBA and NHL, and any game of the Stanley Cup may be granted exemption from Rule 27.” She eyes the basket of breadsticks. “This is the first game of the Eastern Conference Finals,” she says, pointing over her shoulder at the flat screen, “and, I'll have you know, Boston hasn't reached this far in the playoffs since '93. I should add another addendum that compensates for drought.”

      The bartender fires up a blender that drowns out what she just said, and Ken knows he should ask her to repeat herself, but Kendra looked awfully agitated while saying it. The blender is loud. It whirls and chops and sounds like a speedboat bouncing off waves. He looks down to her chest.

      “Why do they call it motorboating?” he asks.

      She pinches the plunge of her pink shirt and hoists it upward. “That's inappropriate conversation. Also, you took two breadsticks.”

      Ken slouches and returns one of the breadsticks to the basket. Dating is difficult. Kendra turns away again and keeps a steady eye on the Bruins game.

      “It's May,” he says, to her orange ponytail. “It's too warm for hockey.” He plops the rest of his breadstick into his mouth and glances at the basket.

      Kendra turns slowly to him with wide eyes. She says nothing. Garlic butter slips in the sweat of Ken's palms, and he nearly coughs on the hunk of dough in his mouth.

      “What did you just say?” she asks. He is quiet, shrinking in the intensity of her stare. He shrugs and mumbles something about it being baseball season. She takes the napkin from her lap, crumples it and places it on the table. “This isn't going to happen.”

      Ken swallows the bread. It drags its heels down his throat. His eyes water and when his voice returns he asks, “Should we go back to Bengy's?”

      “I mean us,” she says, pointing back and forth between the two of them. “This isn't going to work out.”

      “Are you breaking up with me?” he asks. She sighs and averts his glance. He shakes his head and whispers, “But I'm paying you.”

      She frowns and looks apologetically back at him. “I know. That makes this difficult. I can't actually break up with you as we're not actually dating, but I think we should stop seeing each other, if that makes any sense.” She fixes a strand of wayward hair behind her pointy ear. “In all my years of coaching, I've never had to break up with a client. I had a one hundred percent success rate before you came along; I placed all my clients with real girlfriends before the six-month mark. But you're a special case, Ken.”

      “I am a special case,” he says. He slides the breadstick basket aside and speaks to her in a soft voice. “We can get serious, you and me. You can drop your other clients and we can…”

      “We can what? Ride off into the sunset and live handsomely off your Rubble Rental pension?” She shushes him when he begins to tell her that he doesn't get a pension. “This will be good for you,” she says. She speaks in a sympathetic tone. “I honestly believe you'd be better off by making some necessary changes in your life, Ken. You've never received a promotion and your boss is twenty years younger than you.”

      “Yeah, but he's over a foot taller.”

      “And you need some new clothes, and some new friends, or any friends, for that matter, not to sound mean. You need to join a gym, and,” she whispers, “you need to wash your sheets once in a while.” She sighs and averts eye contact. “I'm sorry. I've said too much.” She takes her purse and scoots from the booth.

      “We're leaving? We haven't ordered yet.”

      “I'm leaving, Ken, if you'll excuse me. I'd like to sit at the bar and watch the game, alone.” She stands from the booth, smoothes the wrinkles from her blouse and apologizes again. “Take a few weeks, get yourself together, and maybe we'll pick things up from there.”

      Ken watches her walk away. He watches her slip between the waiters and busboys bustling about with trays of drinks and plates and tubs of dirty dishes. He thinks of returning to his dingy apartment, to his sticky dishes in the sink, to his dirty sheets, to his imprinted seat on the couch, to the television and the radio that fill the silence of his existence. He thinks of stopping her.

      He thinks of telling her that he likes her ears. He thinks of telling her that he loves her vocabulary. He thinks of telling her that he loves that she corrects him when he speaks incorrectly. He thinks of telling her that she brings out the best in him. He thinks of telling her that he loves her. Instead, he glimpses her as she takes a seat at the bar. The young, full-haired bartender approaches her with a handsome smile, and the Bruins score, and the crowd erupts in cheers, hundreds of hands in the air. He can no longer see Kendra's orange hair.

      THREE

      At home, he has another bowl of Rice Krispies for dinner. He sets the bowl of milk on the concrete patio for the stray cat that visits occasionally, and he returns to his grooved imprint on the couch. He spends the evening watching the Bruins and the Lightning skate around in circles. He doesn't understand the appeal of the game. Maybe if they made the nets bigger there would be more scoring. Maybe they should get rid of the goalies altogether. Why does Kendra like this so much?

      His front door whips open and Ivan stomps in with the white envelope he uses to collect rent. Ken is too familiar with this routine. Ivan will stand in front of the television, purposely blocking Ken's view, and he'll dangle the envelope by the masking tape stuck to his thumb, and he'll call Ken a deadbeat, suggest his mother is a harlot who ought to be ashamed of him, and he'll swear in some Slavic language before sticking the envelope to Ken's television screen and slamming the door shut when he storms out.

      Ken braces himself as Ivan marches over to the television. But Ivan stops. “You watch the game tonight?” he asks. He sits beside Ken and elbows him in the ribs until he moves over, and he stares straight ahead, transfixed by the game, just as Kendra did earlier in the evening. Who knew hockey was so popular?

      Ivan opens his palms to the air and shouts, “Nevedia strelit gól!”

      Ken glances cautiously to the screen and back to his new guest, not knowing what the hell he's just said. “Would you like a drink? I have milk or champagne.”