Are You Roger?

            I sat in a small bakery, sipping my coffee, reading the paper.  Well, not really the paper.  I mean it is technically a newspaper, but it’s online.  So, I was actually reading my iPad.

            I often do that over a morning coffee and yes, this is my favorite place.  Matter of fact, I only go to another bakery, or to….my god, Starbucks…if every other place on earth, or at least within walking distance, is closed.  This is a pretty big city, so that happens only as often as I have a date.  Can’t remember the last time for either one.

            It’s called Sam’s Bakery and maybe Sam owns it, but I don’t know.  Never met Sam.  His waitresses’ names are Rosy, Jacqueline, Judy, and Sophie.  They’re not all here at the same time, not all the same age, and not all the same breast size.  Yes, I notice those things.  But, just so you don’t think I’m some sort of perv, I don’t know the actual cup sizes.

            At that moment, a woman sat down in my booth.  Never happened before.  Not old, not young, but younger than my forty-five years.  Nice looking in a fresh, wholesome kind of way, with wavy mouse brown hair, and brown eyes.  No dipping neckline.  Nothing like that.  She wasn’t smiling.

            I was taken by surprise and didn’t say anything, just sat staring.  I live alone and I’m not used to women approaching me.  Can’t remember the last time for that either.

            “You’re Roger, right?”  The voice was girlish, with a kind of whispering sweetness.

            “Yes,” I said.  How did she know that?  “How do you know that?”

            “From the ad.”

            Now I was confused.  I’d sold an old bicycle a few months ago and a radio and three books, none of which were valuable.  Besides, they were long ago sold.  Maybe she read my confusion as distrust.

            “You must get a lot of responses.  That’s quite an ad.  My name is Mabel.  Well, that’s not my real name.  My screen name is Helena.”  Barely a pause before she rambled on, “I don’t suppose Roger is your real name either, but you’re just as I pictured you.  A father figure.  A little bit of a traditional dresser.  I hope you don’t mind me saying that.  I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that and it might make everything more real.”

            She didn’t like my Khakis and white shirt and beige Cardigan?  I keep the top button buttoned.   “This is how I always dress.”

            “Oh,” she said, “I like your voice.  Very masculine.”

            The two waitresses, Rosy and Judy, kept looking in my direction. 

            “You said your name is Mabel, but not really?”

            “Well, women don’t usually give their right name, right?”

            “My right name is Roger.”

            “See, that’s different.”

            “How?”

            “Well for one thing, you’re not wearing a wedding ring.  I am.”

            “Maybe I forgot to put it back on after I shaved.”

            “Oh, that’s clever.  You like to keep secrets.  I love a little mystery.”

            “How’s this for a mystery?  I have no idea who you are.”

            She started to say, she’d told me, but changed her mind.  “I like that idea.”

            “What idea?”

            “Playing the role. Strangers meeting.”

            “It’s the ideal role, we being strangers and all.”

            She laughed, a good throaty laugh.  “I like what you said you’d do to me.”

            “What did I say?”

            “The parts about making me do things.  Awful things.  While you watched.”

            You need to know, I don’t drink.  Nor do I put random ads online.  Nor do I know this woman, or what in God’s green earth she is talking about.  She looked like a normal housewife.  Not bad looking, but nothing glamorous.

            “Did I say that?”

            “You know you did, Roger.”  A sly smile crept in.

            “Did I tell you the part about the cockroaches?”

            She looked blank. “Or the spider webs across … well, you know. Drinking frog poo?  Eight ball in the side pocket?  Anvil tossing?  The horse-leg barbecue?”

            I expected her to bolt, but she didn’t.  The smile came back.  “You’re such a kidder, Roger.  You silly man.  Humor drives me wild.  Is there a men’s room here?”

I pointed.

“I’ll go in first,” she said.  “But, hurry, I don’t like to get cold.”  She scooted out of the booth and flew across the length of the bakery.

            I took another sip of my coffee.

            Another man came in, stopped at the door and looked around.  It’s a small bakery, as I said.  Finding a place to sit is not as difficult as waiting for a supercilious maître d’ and pressing a twenty dollar bill in his greedy hand. 

The guy wore a black raincoat and his dark, thinning hair was slicked back.  A little portly.  His eyes darted.

            Finally, Judy walked over to him.  “Are you Mabel?” he asked.

            “She’s in the men’s room,” I said.