There have been a few Amy’s in my life.
One, early on, I rub up against during middle school dances, especially when Hungry Eyes comes over the loudspeakers, and all you can think about is Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey abiding desperately by dance space.
Another only months after my divorce, buys me sports coats and breath mints and lets me finger-bang her ass on the first date, after I half-ass a pasta primavera with cashews and fresh basil, and an eight dollar bottle of Merlot. We watch the original Dawn of the Dead repeatedly rewinding the part where a keyed up cop kicks open an apartment door blasting clear the head of a “dirty spic,” because we laugh so hard we can’t breathe.
But the one I remember best I meet through Shay. I hate Shay for many reasons, but mostly because she owns a parakeet but doesn’t own a birdcage. Amy has recently ended a long term abusive relationship and is deeply in need of compassion.
Only months earlier, her mother left her father for another woman who promptly hit on her while she was showering.
She had large bruises on her body and a large gap between her two front teeth large enough that I always wondered how many toothpicks I could stack between them.
After we fuck I tell her I don’t want a serious relationship, but that I really enjoy her and we should do it again.
One day she wears overalls to my apartment and I tell her I cannot see myself introducing her to my mother.
For my birthday a group of us go to Anacone’s and Amy is playing pool while I sit at the bar drinking the “working man’s special.”
I jealously watch every guy in the bar walk over as she bends over to align her shot, her skirt hiking her thighs. When she shoots she squeals as if she’s been caught doing something inappropriate.
That night she gives me head in the alley behind the bar.
I never call her again.
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