Lover Not a Fighter

March 25, 2004

I ran into Libby on the subway today. She had her new baby slung around her neck as we stood waiting for the train. I shook the tiny thing's little hand and looked into its glassy eyes.

"Hello, baby," I said. "Remember me?"

She gave me a blank stare and an ambiguous smile, the way all the girls do.

Libby and I filled each other in on things that had been happening in our lives. After we got the big things out of the way, I told her that I'd run into George the other night when I was out with Virgo. Libby knows George. It's through her that I met him in the first place.

"Oh?" she asked, ready for a story.

"Yeah, I was out at Three of Cups with a friend of mine, and he stumbled in whacked out of his gourd."

Libby shook her head. So far, it wasn't anything she hadn't heard before.

"Yeah, and he started telling the girl I was with to be careful with me, that I was weird with my dates."

"Oh no," she laughed.

"He was taunting her, saying shit like: I bet you guys met on the internet, didn't you?"

"He was saying this to her? What did she say?"

"Nothing. She was just whispering to me: Where do you know this guy from?

"He was doing that to Glen one night,” said Libby. “That's why Glen beat him up.”

“What?"

"Yeah, Glen was out with a girl one night, and they ran into George. I guess George started doing the same thing to them, so Glen took him outside and kicked the shit out of him. It was a couple of months ago."

"Huh. No kidding. That hadn’t even occurred to me. Not that I would’ve had the strength to do it, anyway — though, I did have a sober advantage. But you know me. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”