The Girlfriend
10 Feb 2021Today’s prompt: “Write a scene in which a father accidentally meets his son’s girlfriend for the first time. The son isn’t present, and the girlfriend is almost the same age as the father.”
The woman in front of you at Lowe’s pushes a dolly with a package of shingles up to the register and hands her credit card to the cashier. The woman has round hips, a choppy, chin-length haircut, and a cropped leather jacket accentuating her stout, but nonetheless attactive frame.
The cashier attempts to make awkward small talk with the woman as he points his scanner at the package of shingles until it chirps. Nice-day-we’re-having, are-you-using-the-shingles-top-patch-a-hole-or-build-a-doghouse kinds of chatter. It seems like he’s trying to flirt with her and just really bad at it, which is a bit odd. He’s in his early 20s, and she’s probably early 40s. A nice-looking early 40s, granted. You contemplate the woman’s backside. No harm in looking, right?
The cashier examines the woman’s card. “Yid-ruh?” he asks.
“Yee-tho-rah,” she responds.
You snap out of your perfectly innocent observations. You know that name.
“Yidhra?” you ask, pronouncing it as the woman had. She turns and looks at you.
“Do I know you?”
“No. But do you know a Justin?”
“Ah.” The woman smiles. “My boyfriend.” You catch the cashier frowning in disappointment from the corner of your eye.
“My son,” you respond. “He’s told me so much about you.”
“Really?” she says.
“All good, I assure you. He practically worships the ground you walk on.”
She laughs, a light, tinkling laugh. “How odd. He’s told me almost nothing about you.”
“Huh.”
The cashier hands the woman’s card back to her and stammers, “Y’all have a real nice day today, miss,” he says. “I hope you enjoy your shingles.”
“I’m sure I will,” she says.
You lift your paint cans on to the checkout counter, and the cashier gives them the briefest of scans, and nods to you with a curt, “That’ll be $45.89.” He turns back to Yidhra. “Can I help you load those shingles into your car? Those packages can be mighty heavy.”
“I can help her,” you find yourself saying, almost without intending to.
“That would be nice,” she says. “It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other.”
The two of you push the dolly out of Lowe’s, and Yidhra indicates a car on the far side of the parking lot. You walk in silence for a few paces.
“Are you troubled by the fact that your son has not told me much about you?” Yidhra asks. “Perhaps in my presence, he simply forgets about the rest of the world.” That tinkling laugh again.
“I guess I’m a little surprised by the age difference,” you say.
“Oh?” she says.
“I’m just a little surprised that Justin would be dating someone in her – pardon me for making assumptions, but, your 40s, right?”
“Looks can be deceiving,” she says.
“Maybe late 30s,” you say, but you know you’re being generous. “Look, don’t get me wrong, you’re a very attractive woman. I just think you’re a little old for him.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Sometimes people see what they want to see.”
“What do you mean?” you ask.
“You, for instance. You’re not like a lot of men your age who would rather stare at women half their age. That’s why you thought I was in my 40s before you knew I was dating your son.”
“What?”
“Whereas to your son, and probably that cashier, I’m a ravishing young 20-something. But of course I’m much older than that.”
“Older like – 40s?” you venture. You have reached her car at the end of the parking lot and are hoisting the package of shingles into her back seat.
“Older like millenia,” she says.
The streetlight in the parking lot nearest to her car suddenly goes out.
“You’re right about another thing, mostly. Justin does worship me. Not just practically, and not the ground around me. Me. And worship is good for me. And unfortunately, you don’t seem to approve of our relationship, and you seem like you might get in the way of that. But fortunately, he utterly forgets about you when he’s with me. He won’t miss you.”
Yidhra’s form contorts into a hydra-like beast with heads of horned goats and sharp-toothed lions. Immediately she sinks her teeth into your neck, severing your vocal cords.
You gasp for breath. Your eyes dart to the other customers in the parking lot, filling their cars with potted plants and leaf blowers. Why won’t they help you? The light might be dim here, but still, they must see you, right?
And then you remember. People see what they want to see.