She had a theory.
Scientifically, it didn’t count as a theory. She formulated her analysis one afternoon during lunch in high school, and, well past college graduation, it stayed with her. She never uttered her theory out loud but often referred to it when the data was called into question.
If a woman’s name had more syllables than her husband’s or boyfriend’s, then their relationship would be successful.
Well, she would be the first to admit her theory’s lack of sensibility, and there would always be exceptions, but, usually, the theory held true.
It was true for her parents–thirty years happily married.
It was true for her best friend–yet unmarried with a series of bad break-ups with men whose names could not fit the equation.
It was true for her. A man with more syllables in his name wouldn’t give her the time of day. It was especially hard for her with her name only having two syllables. She watched out for the monosyllabic men, but most were far from her type–her type being single, straight, and remotely attractive.
She looked at her reflection. She was wearing the fifth outfit in a row. She was frustrated with excitement and anxiety–and nothing matched. Why did he surprise her like that? She had no time to prepare. She needed time to put together a knock-out outfit. She needed time to get her makeup just right. She was never girly. She wasn’t overly feminine. She still didn’t know how to fix her hair–she just moussed and teased a lot.
She remembered her friends from home who knew everything about clothes and men. She didn’t have friends here–just a job with adequate pay and a dead social life.
Her friends would probably frown upon her frequent visits to the same bar. They would understand, though, if they could see the man who owns said bar and who surprised her with hope in seeing her tonight. They would understand when they heard him sing, but she didn’t want that. Competition would run rampant among them, and she wanted him all to herself.
She returned to the third outfit she previously tried–a complimentary black sweater with her best blue jeans–and finally decided that casual was best for a bar previously encountered. As she inspected her choice in her full-length mirror, she pictured his face, his smile–how his mouth would move when he would say hello. Ideally, he would tell her how beautiful she looked when she walked through the door of his bar and he pulled out her reserved seat at an intimate table for two. He would say charming things as he looked at her in a manner she had only dreamed of (and, obviously, dreams of still). Then, when the moment was right, he would lean in and gently touched her lips with his.
She shook her head, refocusing on her reflection, and became angry with herself. She had another theory, one that always came true.
If she thought or fantasized about something, especially something in her near future, then she jinxed it. It wouldn’t happen. She would live in her mind, but it would never occur in reality.
Frustrated, she began to fix her hair (moussing and teasing). Just then, she feared what his name was. She knew it had to have several syllables–so many that only women blessed with names like Alexandria would stand a chance.
Five big syllables–who does that?
She was reluctant to leave her apartment knowing that she didn’t give her appearance her all. Her hometown friends blessed with polysyllabic names would’ve done wonders, but one must work with what one has been given. She stepped through her apartment door, and, while securing the deadbolt, felt nervous anxiety relieve her mind of her appearance to focus on her lack of verbal skills around members of the opposite sex–well, the ones she found attractive. What would she say? How would she aid conversation should things lull?
She had some great stories from college.
She had some great stories experienced by other people–she always kept the really good ones on file just in case.
Maybe he would take control and do all of the talking. He took serious initiative by approaching her this afternoon.
Yeah–he approached her.
Her steps on the damp pavement echoed against the cold brick buildings with a bit more confidence as she steered her two-block course to his bar. He probably wouldn’t care about her clothes–he wanted her.
She imagined him smiling, thinking that her overall awkwardness was cute.
“Oh, crap!” She exclaimed aloud.
Jinx.
