A Working Theory of Love Read Online Free

of the meat marketplace.
    “You can stay with me,” Rachel says. “We’ll party at the Dome and the Box.”
    “Is that one place or two?”
    “You’ll have to ask the mayor here.”
    “I didn’t know you were the mayor,” I shout at Lexie.
    “What?” She looks insulted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    What am I talking about? I don’t know. I think again about that TV show that I, alone
     in this bar, have not seen. What’s it about? Two crazy girls traveling across the
     country in tube tops? What do the male characters look like? Not me, I’m sure. I’m
     miscast. But maybe like these guys—like this young professional by the bathroom—in
     his pointy shoes, his distressed wide-legged jeans, his hair pushed together in a
     point, as if someone has been sitting on his head bare-assed. Who is
he
supposed to be?
    I push myself off the stool. “Bathroom,” I shout to the girls.
    Up close, the young professional is tall, with a gym-rat buffness and a tattoo across
     his very bare (shaved?) chest that seems to match the embroidery on his shirt. Hopefully,
     I’ve got that backwards. He smells of a cologne I can’t place, oddly floral. His arms
     are crossed, beer bottle held like a club. He has the unsmiling poker face of a psychopath.
    I turn to look at the girls. They’re staring in opposite directions, not speaking
     to each other. The trip has taken its toll.
    “What’s your feeling about brunettes?” I say.
    The young professional eyes me up and down, as if looking for some slice of me to
     respect. Or maybe it’s a tranche—isn’t that a term these people like?
    “You bring your sisters to the bar, dude,” he says, “they might get eaten up.”
    “I love the word ‘dude,’” I say. Tranche. Dude. These people are
on to
something. “They’re not my sisters.”
    “Your name Gina?” he asks.
    “Ha!” I say. “Gina! No, I’m talking about the brunette. Why don’t you go, you know,
     work your magic on her?”
    “The little one?” His face opens up, as if he recognizes me, an old friend he’s always
     known. He hits me on the arm, hard. He’s smiling, I’m smiling. We’re bros before hos.
     “I love the little ones,” he says.
    “Awesome,” I say. And in the bathroom, I think, “This
is
awesome.” It
seems
awesome, and it is awesome. It’s Thursday night. Thursday! And here I am in my own
     town, a wayfaring stranger, with two girls from New Jersey via Tel Aviv. And I’ve
     got this strange guy, who looks like someone famous probably—
from a TV show I alone have never seen!—
swooping in to wingman this situation. Or maybe he’s piloting. Of course he is. In
     his mind. It’s all a question of perspective! I shake my head in the bathroom mirror,
     scrubbing my hands. So much of life—a question of perspective!
    Back in the bar, I find Rachel sitting alone. I point at my ears to indicate how deafening
     it is. She nods, points at her ears too.
    “Where is Lexie?” I ask.
    “Motorcycle,” she shouts.
    “That was quick.” I look out the purple-tinted window but see nothing.
    “You should have seen her in Phoenix,” Rachel says. “It’s pathetic.” She slurs it:
     it’s spathetic.
    “Phoenix?”
    “Tucson. Austin. Santa Fe.”
    “Okay,” I say. Tucson, Austin, Santa Fe—like a railroad jingle. I try to feel cheered.
    “This is what we do,” she says. “Girls where we’re from.”
    “I’ve known plenty of girls from New Jersey. It didn’t seem that bad.”
    She puts her elbows on the table. “But were they
free
?”
    “They seemed pretty liberated.”
    “I don’t mean liberated.”
    I look again to the window. “Lexie seems free.”
    “You’re confused, my friend. Between free and easy.”
    •   •   •
    T HE HOSTEL IS AN old military barracks, cold, drafty, and sonorous. I can hear the occasional voice
     in the common area, the lone footsteps of a late night trip to the bathroom. Rachel
     sits on the bed in my