Love May Fail Read Online Free Page A

blue martinis—which looked like Windex but tasted like Kool-Aid—I had at the airport bar.
    I turn, look into her old eyes, and say, “Sister, I’m glad you asked, because I’m not doing all that well, honestly. And I could talk. Yes, I can. Talk all the way to Philadelphia. Because I’m in trouble. Trouble with a capital T that rhymes with P and that stands for Portia. My name. My curse-id stupid name.”
    I offer my hand, and she shakes it with her eyebrows lifted.
    Her hand feels like a branch ripped from a small tree, left to dry for many years, and then stuck inside a surgical glove.
    If I squeeze hard, everything will snap.
    Even though I’m drunk, I handle with care.
    And then I start to cry again, because I have enough alcohol in me to fuel a small dump truck.
    “Oh, dear,” she says, pulling endless tissues from her bag like she’s David Copperfield. “What’s the matter?”
    “Seriously?” I take a wad of tissues and dab my eyes.
    “Of course.”
    “You really wanna know? Be sure before you answer, because I could just pass out here and let you be. I’m appropriately medicated. You don’t have to hear my depressing pathetic story.” The businessman seated across the aisle from us is staring at me, so I point my finger at his nose and say, “You, sir, can mind your own business!”
    His eyes snap down to the magazine in his hands, and I feel like a powerful woman capable of making men in suits do whatever I say.
    When I spin my face back toward the old nun, she says, “I’m happy to listen. What else is there to do on a flight? Half the fun of flying is learning the stories of fellow passengers. I collect them!”
    I notice the wooden rosary beads wrapped around her hand and catch a glimpse of Jesus’s naked and well-toned body, which is meticulously carved.
    All of the good men are either gay or the sons of gods with martyr complexes. I swear, we heterosexual women are a doomed lot.
    “You collect the stories of strangers?” I say.
    “Why, certainly. Everyone’s story is precious.”
    I can tell this woman is a little nuts, but she seems kind, and kindness goes a long way at a time like this. “Okay, then. But remember. You asked for it.”
    As we taxi, I tell her everything, slurring away.
    I say the word wang several times and describe Ken’s tiny penis at great length before I think better of using such vivid sexual imagery while conversing with a nun, but she seems fascinated—riveted.
    She squints and smiles when I say the word, maybe in spite of herself and her religious convictions.
    Wang.
    Hilarious!
    Like I’m tickling the old woman with dirty words.
    “Do you remember that song ‘Everybody Have Fun Tonight’? No, of course not,” I say. “ Everybody Wang Chung tonight ,” I sing. “You really don’t know it?”
    “Oh, my,” she keeps saying, and then she suddenly pushes the button above us.
    I have a paranoid thought: What if this nun is going to report my drunkenness and try to have me removed from the plane?
    My fists clench.
    The flight attendant appears in the aisle.
    Maeve holds up two pink wrinkly fingers and says, “My friend here has had an awful day. Simply awful. We need vodka and some rocks immediately. If you have any of the citrus flavors, we’ll take those. Any citrus flavor will do.”
    “Beverage service hasn’t begun yet, Sister,” the flight attendant says.
    “Oh, I’m very sorry to ask, but this is a bit of an emergency,” Maeve says. “I can hold you up in my prayers if you oblige us. The whole sister house will pray for you”—she squints at the flight attendant’s name tag—“Stephanie.”
    “Okay, Sister,” the flight attendant says, smiling now. “I’ll take that deal.”
    “People will do anything for nun prayers. Even atheists!” Sister Maeve whispers to me as Stephanie walks away. “Between us girls only. One of the perks of sisterhood.”
    “Are you the type of nun who goes around saying you’re married to Jesus?”