Twice, I’d struck out with her. The trip to cool down was strike one. My wasting gas driving irritated her, things were tight and gas was money. Her annoyance with me didn’t stop her from getting in the car to escape our apartment. With the air conditioner broken, our place doubled for Hell’s sauna. Her pissy mood went into full effect when we passed Lynn Rd.
“I wonder if a lot of porn stars live on Lynn Road.” An unfunny joke made for myself.
“Why?”
"You know how many sluts take the last name ‘Lynn' when going into porn." We watched porn together, she should know. "There's Amber Lynn, Ginger Lynn, Krissy Lynn, Jamie Lynn, Rebel Lynn, it's like the go-to name if you want to be a whore."
“Lynn was my mother’s name.” Her mother moved in when she did. The first box Alex unpacked was the one with her urn in it. Since then, mom resided on a shelf in the living room.
“You told me your mother’s name was Linda.”
“But everyone called her Lynn.”
“So? You didn’t tell me that.”
“You’re saying my mom has a whore’s name?”
“No, and you’ve always referred to your mom as Linda, how would I know?” I made a note to myself to check the self-help books she’d been reading. If it existed, “Argument Starters for the Busy Girlfriend,” had to be in the pile next to the Deepak Chopra and other bullshit she fed her mind.
Alex slipped out her shoes and reclined in the couch-like front seat with her feet out the window. Her toes pointed into the oncoming air. The wind rushed over her streamlined legs. Their shape guiding the currents along her flesh, pushing the hem of her retro grunge summer dress over her tummy, exposing her white cotton panties. She didn't care. Over the last year working as a nude art model brought in her bucks. At home, she’d always be naked. We’d walk in the door and she’d strip down to her panties. Soon they’d come off. Sometimes she’d throw on one of my T-shirts. She wasn’t an exhibitionist, she didn’t care. If UPS had a delivery, as long as she had on a bra and panties she’d answer the door. When I said something, she pointed out “it’s more or less a bikini, so what is the big deal,” she was right. For the Jehovah's Witnesses, she'd answer the door naked. She assured me it was the best way to keep them from returning. Again, she was right.
She picked at the cracked plastic on the dash, her idea of an act of aggression. Alex was five years younger than my 1989 powder blue Cadillac Eldorado. Which didn’t mean much, if I wasn’t five years older than the car, putting ten years between us. My relationships had taken on a Dorian Grey quality. As I aged, my girlfriends stayed between 21 and 23 years old.
