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Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Woman in Omaha
Short Story by VictorM
It was a cold Sunday morning in Omaha, Nebraska. I dashed across the street from my hotel into the Stage Right coffee house to eat a bagel and read the newspaper. The coffee house was swarming with women who lend credence to my factheory that all women are bitches (factheory is a word I made up meaning: not fact but more than theory). And the bitches are everywhere: a girl flirting with her friend’s boyfriend; another whined about her cracked fingernail; yet another girl fixed her hair every few minutes, using the window as a mirror. Flirty bitches, fragile bitches, vain bitches -- they are everywhere. I had already given up on finding an exception to my factheory at this place when I looked over to my left and saw her.
She was sitting on a corner table, leaning against the window that faces the bus stop. She was reading a book and sipping from her cup. Her un-meticulous hair and loose clothes yelled “down to earth”. She didn’t seem to be striving to fit in with the rest of the trendy crowd. She exuded confidence with every glance. She wasn’t movie star beautiful, but she had that midwestern classic good look, the corn-fed look. If you don’t know what I mean, never mind, it’s not important anyway. What’s important is that I started feeling that she could be an exception.
I found myself staring at her. I tried to be discreet but she caught me a few times looking in her direction. I wasn’t quite sure if she was getting annoyed or not; her expressions were intriguing but I didn’t know how to read them. I hoped she didn’t think I was being a pest. But hey, she was looking back and that was a good thing.
I saw her scribble on a piece of paper and place it under the sugar container. Then she got up and walked out just as a bus was approaching. She came around on the outside of the window, looked at me and pointed to the piece of paper. I could read her lips saying: “for you”. She smiled, winked, turned around and stepped onto the bus. Before I could snap out from my startled state, she was gone.
I hurried to the table and picked up the piece of paper. All it had written on it was a phone number. No name, just a phone number. I smiled, thinking she was exciting and mysterious, direct yet not imposing, subtle but assured—signs of a special woman indeed.
A day later I nervously dialed 402-339-2653, the number she had scribbled on the piece of paper, and anxiously waited to hear her voice. After a few rings, a man answered announcing a place of business. I asked if he could help me locate a woman. I explained that I didn’t know her name but saw her the day before at the Stage Right. He said that no woman worked there, only men. I asked him to repeat the name of the business. He said: “Critter Control, Omaha’s leading pest control firm.”
That fucking bitch!
It was a cold Sunday morning in Omaha, Nebraska. I dashed across the street from my hotel into the Stage Right coffee house to eat a bagel and read the newspaper. The coffee house was swarming with women who lend credence to my factheory that all women are bitches (factheory is a word I made up meaning: not fact but more than theory). And the bitches are everywhere: a girl flirting with her friend’s boyfriend; another whined about her cracked fingernail; yet another girl fixed her hair every few minutes, using the window as a mirror. Flirty bitches, fragile bitches, vain bitches -- they are everywhere. I had already given up on finding an exception to my factheory at this place when I looked over to my left and saw her.
She was sitting on a corner table, leaning against the window that faces the bus stop. She was reading a book and sipping from her cup. Her un-meticulous hair and loose clothes yelled “down to earth”. She didn’t seem to be striving to fit in with the rest of the trendy crowd. She exuded confidence with every glance. She wasn’t movie star beautiful, but she had that midwestern classic good look, the corn-fed look. If you don’t know what I mean, never mind, it’s not important anyway. What’s important is that I started feeling that she could be an exception.
I found myself staring at her. I tried to be discreet but she caught me a few times looking in her direction. I wasn’t quite sure if she was getting annoyed or not; her expressions were intriguing but I didn’t know how to read them. I hoped she didn’t think I was being a pest. But hey, she was looking back and that was a good thing.
I saw her scribble on a piece of paper and place it under the sugar container. Then she got up and walked out just as a bus was approaching. She came around on the outside of the window, looked at me and pointed to the piece of paper. I could read her lips saying: “for you”. She smiled, winked, turned around and stepped onto the bus. Before I could snap out from my startled state, she was gone.
I hurried to the table and picked up the piece of paper. All it had written on it was a phone number. No name, just a phone number. I smiled, thinking she was exciting and mysterious, direct yet not imposing, subtle but assured—signs of a special woman indeed.
A day later I nervously dialed 402-339-2653, the number she had scribbled on the piece of paper, and anxiously waited to hear her voice. After a few rings, a man answered announcing a place of business. I asked if he could help me locate a woman. I explained that I didn’t know her name but saw her the day before at the Stage Right. He said that no woman worked there, only men. I asked him to repeat the name of the business. He said: “Critter Control, Omaha’s leading pest control firm.”
That fucking bitch!
