The Girl Who Couldn't Cry

When she first told me, I thought she was a liar. I mean, even I’m not afraid to admit that I cry. Where’s the shame in that? Life is overwhelming. And when it starts to suck you in, you can do one of two things: stuff it or cry. Yet here was a woman, standing at the plate, who claimed to have a fair amount of disconcertment in her life, but who swore, up and down, that she did not nor would not cry.

Her name was Chloe. She worked in a garage. (Which explains some of her proposed emotional deficiency.) On our first date, she showed up at my front door with a bouquet of assorted beers and cigars. She had on a pair of faded coveralls and a little smudge of brown grease on her cherubic left cheek. I almost asked her if she had forgotten that we were supposed to go dancing at the Have a Nice Day Café, but after I had accepted my generous gift of alcohol and nicotine, she asked, “Can I use your shower.” She walked past me as if she had been there a thousand times – unbuckling her dirty coveralls along the way. She stood in front of the bathroom door – wearing only a tiny pink tank and matching angel shorts – long enough to figure out where I kept the clean towels, and then she vanished into the water.

Damn. This girl was an original. Unorthodox. And hot. I cursed myself for being even remotely concerned about her lack of weeping. But I had to admit…it bothered me. Just a little. I’m the kind of guy who encouraged emotional vomiting from the women I dated. I thrived on the fragility of instability. Even welcomed a bit of friendly hostility. But this Chloe…she was more together than I was. What could be done with her?

On the dance floor, she was an animal. Rabid. Aggressive. Impulsive. Her movements during “Funky Town” were acrobatic and obscene. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that she performed a series of 3 consecutive back-flips during Prince’s song “Kiss”. And the room was anything but deserted. She almost took the painted face off of a big-chested husky blonde, who was dancing with an even huskier male companion. The blonde yelled out “Bitch” and Huskier’s muscles flexed through his tight t-shirt. I had to get us out of there quickly, to avoid the possibly devastating aftermath. Though I think Chloe could have taken them both.

We walked out into the cool A.M. of late May. Her post-shower ensemble of croqueted, pink knit halter top and flared, gem-studded disco jeans were soaked through with the sweaty rewards of her dance floor escapades. She was so hot. (I mean, she was definitely attractive, but when I say hot, what I mean is that her intense 80’s aerobics had rendered her unable to cool down sufficiently, even though I had begun to feel a bit of a chill coming on.)

We walked along the dock of the bay that ran between the club and my apartment. And, without warning, the girl who couldn’t cry, jumped into the water – fully clothed – removing only her deadly 3 inch clunky heals before doing so.

She was under the water for a solid minute, but it felt like 10. I was scared. Not only because I was just beginning to enjoy her company, but I was also realistic – I didn’t want to be blamed, in any way, for her watery death. But then something else kicked in, just about the time she finally surfaced. Something I wouldn’t be able to discern until much later. I helped her up the safety ladder and back onto the dock. She pulled up her now sagging halter to avoid flashing me, and wrung out her sopping brown hair. She leaned against me for leverage as she slipped her heels back on. Then she told me something I already knew” “I was hot.”

There wasn’t much talk on the way back to my apartment. She held onto me because the wetness had left her cold. When we arrived, she got the towel from earlier (already dry) and wrapped her head. But she didn’t put her coveralls back on. Instead, she helped herself to one of the flannels from the closet in my bedroom and cloaked her still damp halter top. It was around 3:30. She told me she had to go. A busy day at the garage tomorrow. Well...in a couple of hours, really.

I caught her at the door. She dropped her bag of things. I reached over to her cheek – the one that sported the grease smudge only 5 hours ago. There was a single drop of water that had escaped from under the towel, down her forehead, over the bridge of her nose, down the side, and was clearly rolling down the tear track of her left eye. At least where the tear track should be. I collected the drop and showed it to her. It balanced perfectly on the tip of my finger.

“I thought you never cried?”

She quickly ate it with her strawberry mouth. “No salt,” she said calmly.

I didn’t hesitate. “Let me taste,” I told her, and immediately kissed her mouth with forceful abandon. Her back was pressed against my apartment door.

I pulled my face away from hers after maybe 45 seconds. A shorter period of time than she had been under the water. Revealed was a Chloe that I had yet to meet. She looked terrified. She informed me – once again – of her need to leave. And then…she did. Taking my towel and flannel with her.

I never saw her again after that night. She wouldn’t return my phone calls and that was that. We had connected that night. I felt it. I was sure she had too. And when she jumped in the bay, I was never more attracted to a woman than I was in that moment. These things just do not happen every day.

Maybe I pushed too hard. Who can tell? I would never be able to know for sure whether Chloe’s tear ducts continued to stay dry. Or whether it was all just a sham in the first place. But I will tell you this. In the few hours of night that remained after she left, I opened up one of those imported beers and fired up a red-banded cigar. I sat in my window sill and a pair of synchronized tears began their trek down my saddened visage. The initial wet troops, for who would come plenty of reinforcements.