No More Nice Guys
If she met one more ‘nice guy,’ Chelsea swore she’d scream.
First there was Mike, her mother’s hairdresser’s son, who’d spent their date reciting lines from Napoleon Dynamite. She couldn’t take her eyes off the broccoli wedged in his teeth, how it wriggled with each guffaw.
He’d given her a rose. How nice.
Then Bob, her co-worker’s cousin’s stepbrother, whose life revolved around cars. All night it was carburetor this, alternator that. He thought it would be cute to nickname her Chevy. “Just like the car!” She called him a dipstick; he viewed it as a proposition.
He’d given her a rose, too.
Tonight, she would meet Tim, her mailman’s nephew’s roommate, at a Halloween party.
Dressed up as a princess, Chelsea forced a saccharine smile. Maybe this will be tolerable.
Chelsea squinted through a sea of partygoers who pretended to be someone they weren’t, hoping to find someone likeable. Someone capable of a two-way conversation.
Two men sat in the corner of the room. Fidgeting.
The man on the left was slim, with a bad combover. He wore a white shirt buttoned up to the neck and an obnoxiously large sign: “Tim’s Costume!” A red rose trembled in his palms.
The man on the right was rugged, muscular—his Warrior costume clinched with a leather choker of spikes and skulls.
Chelsea was tired of nice guys.
“Hi,” she said to the Warrior.
He grinned, his smile big and toothy.
“I like turtles,” he replied.