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6. ILL-AT-EASE; The Case Of The Exploding Phone. July 22, 2023, continued.

She's there, in my spare parking place, head in. She's up by my door, phone lighting her face; that pretty face. Those blue jeaned legs. I pull up, back in, so as not to shine lights on the apartments, hoping she notices the example. Hoping she comes again, and again and remembers. I park, pop my trunk, get my guitar. I walk up, expecting Ileace. Miss No turns to face me.

"My Mother's blowing up my phone!" she says. "She's saying all kinds of... things... about you!"

She stops, looks at her phone. "What did you really talk about? That Clancy Brothers story wasn't it. She says that shows you're an easy liar. She says you found it easy to tell that lie, quickly, and..." she seems to be reading off her phone, "...and in depth. She says..."

My song-writer's mind is distracted, "Easy Liar", copyright July 2023 by the late Gary E. Andrews.

These witches are going to be the death of me!

"She says that wasn't what you talked about. She says you lied to me!" she says, looking at her phone. I set my guitar case down, pull my keys out, try to reach around her to the storm door handle. She doesn't move out of the way. I step back. Her face is angry in the light from her phone. Those pretty eyebrows bend down at the middle of her forehead.I don't want to look at it. I look off up the front doors of the other apartments. I wonder if anyone has their windows open. She's a little loud... like... her Mother. The wind rustles the trees. I see light from the moon, on clouds moving slowly overhead, disappearing northwest over the apartment roof. I want to go to the back yard, sit at the picnic table, talk about... this... whatever 'this' is. I pick up my guitar, start to tell her that. I'm fantasizing about a moonlight scene that she ain't willing to play in. She's getting more agitated. I'm waiting for her to get off the phone!

She's reading. The little sound-signal on her phone is pinging every fifteen or twenty seconds. I turn away, waiting for her to... finish there and... get to me. I look at our cars, look through the trees, back down the hill to the strip mall, the light from the convenience mart. I wish we were down there, her sitting on the hood, me standing in the broken glass and cigarette butts and growing weeds, me playing; her... not saying anything.

"Did you..." she says... I turn sideways, look back at her. There's a tear on her right cheek. I lust to kiss it away, imagine the taste, wet on my lips. "Did you tell my Mother... you intend to have sex with me?"

"Turn that damned thing off for a minute!" I say, a bit regretful for my tone. I walk out, lean on the trunk of my car, set my guitar case at my feet on the parking curb. She's still standing by the door, still lit by her phone screen. Then, she's coming, still reading, still lit, phone still pinging. She stops about ten feet away. The phone light goes out. Her face goes dark. She looks off into the woods at the end of the apartments. I look there. It's dark, but for moonlight on the tree tops. I imagine the moonrise, close to the horizon, huge. She comes closer, still about seven feet away. I feel that distance. I stand there, leaning on my car, and don't know what to say. Where do you start with a story like this? I try to remember the whole conversation with Mrs. No.

"When I finished playing, I looked and you were gone," I tell her. "I thought, 'Maybe she took the kids to the bathroom. I took my guitar outside, to my car. Your car was gone. I came back in and sat at her table. I thought the exorcist men would come then and harvest my kidneys. Instead your Mother started without them. Your Mother asked me, 'Do you make up those songs?' I told her I do." She interrupts,

"She says that's why you're an 'easy liar', 'cause you make stuff up, make up stories. She says your songs are all about me."

"Yeah, I'm an easy liar. I like making up stories for songs. And if the conversation isn't very interesting, and it usually isn't, I... easily... tell a joke, make it sound like something that really happened. Jokes go over better that way, when I get to the punch line and people realize it was a joke all along. Easy Liar. I'll probably write a song about that. I hope you don't mind. I'll have to credit your Mother with the idea, cut her in for the Royalties as my co-writer!"

She steps closer, arms crossed, ever present phone sticking up by that pretty right shoulder, says, "Don't joke. This isn't... fun to me!" The phone pings. The light comes on. She ignores it.

"Yeah," I say, edit out a few possible comments and eff bombs from the Pull-down menu in my mind, "It's not fun to me either."

I don't want to look away from her. I do want to, but I don't do it. I don't want to look at this face, her face, hurt, antagonizing me, in agony, herself, questioning my... intent.

"The very next question your Mother asked me was whether I was having sex with you," I say, my voice low, cracking a little. This is embarrassing. She steps closer.

"No... she... didn't!" she says, a quiet, deliberate tone. I stand accused!

"Yes, ...she did," I tell her. I don't know if she's accusing me of lying or what. "She asked if you slept here that Saturday. I said you did. She asked if we were having sex. I told her no, that we just met. It was... such a bold question I asked her if you were fourteen." I chuckle just a bit, but have to steel my emotions against the opposite of chuckling. "I think the next question she asked was whether I intended to. I started to tell her you could make up your own mind about that... I think I said you were a mature young woman, that I am a man. Oh. I told her it was a distinct possibility. I'm a man. You're... a lovely young woman. That's what we're working toward isn't it? It is. I intend to have sex with you. You intend to have sex with me. You asked me what I want from you. I told you; "Everything." What do you want from me? If sex isn't part of it you need to let me know because I'm operating under the wrong impression!"

"Well you didn't need to tell my Mother that!" she says, a little loud... and mean!

"SHE! ASKED!" I tell her, trying to be equal-to/not-greater-than loud and mean.

I don't want to talk about this any more. She's rocking forward and back on her feet, one forward of the other, looking at me, saying nothing, looking away at cars passing out on the street, looking off into the woods. That damned phone in her hand isn't pinging but it's ugly just the same. I'm just waiting. I'm worn the hell out. A minute ago I was ready to stay up all night. What the hell have I gotten myself into? The crazier it gets the more I want her. Or less. I'm that confused! Hell! I just met her! I'm still not sure what her name is! I shouldn't be this... this... This.

"I need to go talk to my Mother!" she says. She steps toward her car.

"Yeah," I say. "That's probably a good idea." Now I'm the one looking at passing cars. I stand up, pull my keys out again, pick up my guitar. I step up the sidewalk. She steps aside, arms crossed, shoulders and the right side of her face, glistening in moonlight. I hand my keys to my left hand, at the handle of the guitar, reach out with my right, hug around her waist, not hug, not pulling her to me, just... my arm around her waist. I grip the right side of her back, the heel of my hand at her spine, fingertips at her ribs. She puts her hands on my torso, like she thinks I'm about to grab her and is ready to push me away. Damned phone light in my face!

"Come back if you can," I say, looking in her eyes. "Don't bring a butcher knife. I have knives here."

She laughs, just a one syllable, 'Ha!'. It sounds like a nervous... release... or... collapse. She's breathing in and out, rapidly. She calms.

She brings her hands up, that stupid phone in her right, wipes the corners of her eyes, index knuckle on the right, thumb on the left. I take my arm from around her, go, walk up to my door. As I open the storm door I hear her car door shut. I put the key in the lock. Her engine starts. The headlights shine on me. They go off. I open the door, step in, set my guitar case against the wall, behind the door, by the stairs. The storm door is closing. I catch it with my left shoulder, look out, watch her go slowly through the parking lot to the street. Her headlights come back on. She turns right. I hear her shift slowly through the gears, go quietly away. I wait until I'm sure I don't hear her any more, imagine her there, in her fancy-smancy car, blue light on... that face... alone. 'Come back, baby.' What if she doesn't come back?

I close the storm door, latch it, leave the inside door standing open. I don't turn on any lights. Moonlight is shining in the kitchen windows. I go to the back door, open it, look at the moon through the storm door. Thin clouds blow over it. It lights the picnic table. We're not out there. Latch the storm door, leave the back door open, let the moonlight in. Let the moonlight... in.

I come back in, get my water bottle off the stove, half full, fill it with water from the pitcher in the refrigerator, go sit on the couch, in the dark. I don't want to turn on my laptop. Finally I get up and do. I don't want to see the numerous Yahoo News articles about the Idiocracy raging in Washington. I don't want to read the tragedy locally, missing children, runaways, body found, the menu from the new restaurant. I don't feel like opening www.JustPlainFolks.com and seeing what's new. I turn it off, go back to the couch. I'm thirsty. I don't want to get up and go back to the computer desk to get my water bottle. I lay my head back on the back of the couch, put my foot on the coffee table, push it away. I'm... numb. I'm... not thinking... of anything.

Sleep.

Dream.

There are people chasing me! I'm outrunning most of them! One guy is catching up. He has a razor blade! I pull my pocketknife, let him get close, turn suddenly and slash across his throat and shoulder! He cuts my left thumb with the razor blade!

I wake up!

I lay over on the couch. Pull a pillow under my head. I smell... her. I go back, go back, go back to sleep, back to dreams.