Surface Tension

I realized my jaw had dropped to the ground as she stepped from the cab, and I made a conscious effort to close it before I started drooling. My eyes moved hungrily from the black stiletto heels to the shapely calf and the muscular thigh peeking out from the slit in her form-fitting red dress. Then I caught sight of the scars on her hand, her bare right arm, her neck, and across half of her face. I couldn't look away from the horrible sight, not even to meet her eyes as she gazed at me inquiringly. When she smiled, it came across as a twisted grimace, the scars pulling down one side of her mouth, and I felt revulsion like a skin of dirt forming over my body.

"Peter?" She held out her hand to me. I didn't take it.

"I'm Marla," she continued, arm still outstretched. I still didn't take it. Finally she dropped it to her side, marring the beauty of the tight lines of her dress. My eyes dropped to a vague spot on the ground.

"I see. Well, I'm sorry to have wasted your time." There was a sadness in her voice, but no anger.

I forced myself to look at that face, though my stomach flip-flopped. "Sorry, no, it's just that Janet ... Look, sorry. I gotta go."

And I left her standing by the curb, hurrying down the street. I didn't see where she went. As I rounded the corner, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed. After three rings, Janet picked up.

"Peter, shouldn't you be on a date right now?"

"You told me you were setting me up with a knockout," I accused, sensing my own face contorting in anger.

"I did. Janet's got two doctorates, one in biochemistry and one in linguistics; she's funny; she's insightful; and she's got a figure to die for."

"But you didn't tell me, well, you didn't say ... she's a freak!"

"Her house burned down when she was ten, and she barely got out alive. She's fought every day against prejudice, and she's made a great life for herself. But you know what? You don't deserve to know this. I had no idea you were so shallow. I am so disappointed in you." And the phone went dead.

Janet was my closest woman "friend," and her words felt like a fire against my own skin. A guy had to have some standards, right? Then why was I standing in the middle of the block with a feeling of guilt so heavy in my chest I didn't think I'd ever move again?