Wild Fiction

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‘No, it isn’t hard to tell. It’s called the importance of perceptive observation. It works like this: You’re a man and what interests you are the football results.’ Rebecca looked down at the newspaper that was open on the last two pages. The penultimate page had a large picture of Michael Owen about to shoot a goal. ‘You’d also be interested if I suggested we go down the pub for a few pints and follow that with a curry. Right?’
‘What’s wrong with a pint and a curry?’ James countered. He immediately regretted his hasty answer.
‘There’s nothing wrong with football, beer and curry. My point is that very little else can genuinely capture your attention. If we were passing a shop and I pointed to a dress and said, “that’s a lovely dress,” you’d probably agree with me.’
James hesitated before answering. ‘Probably,’ he said. He felt pleased with that response. Probably is totally non-committal, he thought. I can’t get into trouble with that answer.
‘And then if we passed that same shop on the way back from town and I pointed to the same dress and said, “that’s an ugly dress, I don’t know how anybody could wear something like that,” you’d probably agree with me again.
‘But that’s just blatant trickery. You’re just trying to confuse me by saying that.’ James felt a bead of sweat run from under his arm and down his side.
‘No, I’m making the point that you would say my hair was great no matter what it looked like.’
James pulled his eyebrows together. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times like a stranded goldfish. She hadn’t asked a question so there was no need to speak, he thought. If he didn’t say anything then he couldn’t say anything wrong was his reasoning.
‘I’m not blaming you,’ Rebecca said. ‘It’s a bloke thing and you’re a bloke. It’s just something I needed to get off my chest. So, what do you think of my hair?’
‘I like it... I mean it.’
‘So do I. Thanks,’ she flashed a smile at him.
James returned her smile and pushed the newspaper aside. ‘Did you meet Genevieve?’
‘Well, I didn’t meet her but I sat next to her in the salon. She’s very attractive. How old is she?’
‘Late twenties or early thirties I think. She must be early thirties, I think she’s in the Cynical Stage.’
‘Cynical Stage? What do you mean by Cynical Stage?’
James looked around the café and tapped his fingers lightly on the tabletop. Damn, he thought to himself. How in hell’s name do I get out of explaining this one to her.

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