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The Goodbye Girl

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Boys never stay until morning. They don't send flowers, and they never call.

"Men only want one thing," Momma warns; preserve the mystery, she says. But it's the '80s. Maybe all those restrictive gender stereotypes meant something in her time. Not nowadays. Surely?

"Lose some weight," Momma tells you. She fiddles with your hair, sighing. "You could be such a pretty girl, Roberta!"

You just laugh. That'll make you a better person, how? Your mind, your heart: that's what matters. If people judge you by your looks, then screw 'em. You're a modern woman. You won't compromise your principles.

Still: a card, a phone call, even just a bare acknowledgement. That'd be something.

The boy you met last night in the bar; maybe he'll be different. Okay, all that time you were arguing about sports, he didn't really seem to realise you were a girl. But once you'd stuck your hand down the front of his pants and your tongue down his throat, he'd got the idea fast enough. He'd been pretty wasted, and it'd been less than great for both of you, but … he'd seemed sweet.

You shower and dress, and go down to the lobby. And you wait.

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