Rules Of Engagement

10

He sounds condescending. As if liking eggs prepared that way is a character flaw.

“No. Poached.”

“Poached?” Now he sounds incredulous. “Who makes poached eggs for themselves at home?” I can almost hear the answer he left out: A cat hoarding spinster, that’s who.

When I feel the heat creeping up my neck, I hear my mother’s scolding voice in my head. Be nice, Maddie! There’s no excuse for bad manners!

Tell that to Godzilla.

I take a breath and try to put a smile in my voice. “What kind of eggs do you like?” He says flatly, “I hate eggs.”

Of course you do. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers.

After a moment, he seems to realize the conversation has fallen off the edge of a cliff and offers a mumbled, “I love bacon, though.”

It’s a miracle: Mason Spark and I have something in common.

“Crispy or chewy?”

He hollers, “Chewy is disgusting!”

Gee, have an opinion, why don’t you? I say calmly, “I prefer crispy, too.”

He exhales. Even that sounds aggravated. I can’t imagine what it must be like to go around like that, with so much pent up anger you can’t even talk about breakfast foods without exploding.

After an uncomfortable pause wherein all I hear is the sounds of his footsteps thumping back and forth as he paces—or at least I imagine he’s pacing, it seems like something he’d do, but for all I know he’s on his way to the cellar with the dead body he needs to dispose of—I say, “Would you like me to tell you why I called now, or do you have more shouting to do? If so, I can wait. Just checking.” There’s a noise—a chuckle?

No. Impossible.

He blurts, “What’s with the pink?”

And we’re off. “The pink what?”

“All the f*****g pink at your office. It’s really f*****g weird.”

Now I understand why pious Catholics are always crossing themselves. They’re praying to God to come and take them to heaven, because they’ve got their own Mason Spark in their lives and they’re this close to sharpening that hatchet in the garage and burying it in his skull. I feel so, so sorry for all those girls I set up with him on the phone.

“Mr. Spark—”

“MASON!”

When my hearing returns and the dishes in the cupboards have stopped rattling, I say, “Mason, I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t curse at me. It’s a pet peeve of mine. If we’re going to continue working together, I need you to show me a certain level of respect. Agreed?”

The footsteps on the other end of the phone stop abruptly. “I wasn’t cursing at you. I was just cursing in general. There’s a difference.”

His voice sounds subdued. I think that’s as close to an apology as I’ll get, but it’s good enough.

“I see. So the reason for the call—”

“Is your problem with all cursing, or just the F-word? Because honestly, the F-word is so useful for so many different situations, I don’t think I’d be able to speak a full f*****g sentence without it.” I lower my head and bang it gently against the kitchen table.

“Hello?”

“Still here.”

“You sound weird.”

“That’s because my brain is leaking out my ears.”

“Probably ’cause of all those poached eggs. The yolks are never cooked enough. You know what’s in runny eggs? Salmonella. You’re probably dying from a brain infection as we speak.”

Already exhausted by this conversation, I exhale in a huge gust. “Salmonella affects the intestinal tract, not the brain.”

“Really? Hmm. What bacteria do you get from handling kitty litter?”

I actually know the answer to that, but I realize he’s baiting me and won’t give him the satisfaction. I say sweetly, “Probably the same bacteria you get from sweaty jockstraps.” There’s a moment of stunned silence before Mason starts to laugh.

It’s a big, beautiful sound, open and honest, unselfconscious and deep. I lift my head and simply listen to him laugh until the guffaws taper down to chuckles and my shock has lessened to somewhere south of total organ failure.

He says, “For such a librarian, you’re funny.”

I sniff. “Librarians are smart and essential in helping kids develop critical thinking skills and guiding them through media literacy, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”

His voice gets low and gruff again, all the laughter gone. “It was. You’re very...”

I lean forward, holding the phone tighter, my ears pricked and my pulse ticking up, until Mason blurts, “Prim.”

Prim. Ah yes. How every woman longs to be described.

Romeo, O Romeo, where in the F-word art thou?

I enjoy a brief but vivid image of myself with a handful of darts and Mason strapped to a board several yards away with a target painted on his bare chest, hollering curses at the top of his lungs as I smile, take aim, and let the darts fly, one after the other, hitting a bull’s-eye every time.

Really, who could blame me?

Before he can interrupt me again, I say, “I want to be your dating coach.” Silence.

I’ve never met another person who can make it seem so loud.

Then, sounding like I’ve called his manhood into question, he growls, “Believe me, I don’t have a problem finding dates.”

I roll my eyes. Athletes and their egos. “But you want a wife—” “Need. Not want.”

The vehemence in his voice stalls me for a second. “Mason?”

“Yeah?”

“You know a woman can’t fix whatever’s wrong with your life, right?”