One
There is nothing in existence more sensual than a man with a beard. Prove me wrong. You can’t. Without a doubt, if I were a guy, I’d have a beard. And not a scruffy half attempt either. I’d commit and grow that baby out to its full potential. It would cover my jaw with its lustrous hair, complete with a mustache to accentuate my lips.
That lush panty-dropper would hang below the tip of my chin, perfectly trimmed. It wouldn’t just drop panties, it would annihilate them.
It would be sexy.
It would be…beardiful.
Just like the guy in front of me.
“I think you’re in my booth,” Beard Man says in a voice as decadent as Granny Mae’s cake.
I wrench my gaze from his beard and stare into smoke-colored eyes. “Um, no. This is the space they designated me. Sixty-nine.”
“Me too.” He looks at the paper in his hand. “Are you sure you read your confirmation correctly?”
“Positive.” He’s a stranger, so I won’t disclose the reason I’m so sure is that rather than the obvious oral connotation of sixty-nine, the first thing that popped in my mind was the difference between six and nine is three. Dating has really screwed me up in the head. But what are mistakes if we can’t learn from them? We need to repeat them until we get it right. Everyone justifies things in different ways, and that’s mine for wanting to climb Beard Man like a tree and perch gently atop his beard.
“Well, this mix-up is a problem,” he says.
It’s more than a problem, it’s a catastrophe. Autumn is my season, dammit. I’m changing just like the leaves and today is my transformation into a businesswoman. I’ve spent months preparing for my pottery debut.
“What’s going on?” Charlotte asks.
“We’re both assigned to the same booth,” I say. “He has sixty-nine too.”
“Well, that’s not good,” she says with alarm in her dark eyes. “The craft fair opens in thirty minutes.”
Beard Man scrubs a hand across the hair on his face. “I’ll contact them and see how we can fix this.”
That’s a positive sign he chose “how” and not “if.” He pulls a phone the size of my head from his jeans pocket and wow, his beard is something to behold as he explains the mess up to whoever is on the other end. “Do you have something I can write on?” he mouths.
His Respect the Beard T-shirt has me scurrying away to snag a sticky note and pen. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” He jots something and hangs up. “Well…good news and bad news,” he says. “Which do you want first?”
“Bad news. It’s best to get the disappointment first.” I’m a firm believer in saving the best for last. “Give it to me.” It must be horrendous judging by the way he hesitates and bites his succulent lip. “Wait. I’m not ready. Do I want the good news first?”
“Well—”
“No, tell me the bad news. I’m ready.”
“There are no other available booths. We were both assigned this space by a computer glitch and nothing can fix it. According to time stamps, I registered first, so the space is technically mine.”
Narrator: she wasn’t ready.
“Why didn’t you warn me? That’s not bad, that’s horrible news,” I say, sagging against a column.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Sorry is really an inept word.
“And the good news?’
He clasps a hand on the back of his neck and lets out a breath. “They’re very sorry for the mistake.”
See? It’s a polite adjective that in no way soothes the ache of disappointment. Whoever guides my life in the universe thinks they’re a comedian and I’m not amused.
“I’m living in a clown world,” I murmur.
Three sets of eyes glance around in awkward silence at the hard work Charlotte and I did this morning. Not to brag, but my faux kitchen presentation is kick-ass. It took several Saturdays of trolling rummage sales until Charlotte and I found standing bookcases with doors to replicate cabinets. I even purchased cool granite laminate from the hardware store to stick to the table so it resembles a countertop. Don’t get me started on the fake stove and refrigerator. Clever, right? Actually, I am bragging. I deserve it.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Charlotte says. “You can always share the space?”
“Yes,” I say, not ready to give up. “We can do a little remodeling and instead of displaying all my product, I can refill as needed?”
Mr. Beard surveys the space. “I’d be cool with that,” he says. “I can put my T-shirts in the stove and refrigerator.”
“I’d kiss you if you weren’t a stranger,” I say, smiling. “You rock.”
A strange vibe fills the air as he tilts his head and studies me. I wonder if there was a tad too much hopefulness in my kiss comment but the moment evaporates as Charlotte claps her hands, dispelling the weirdness. “Let’s get busy.”
We spend the next few minutes working out logistics, and then he stalks away to get things from his truck so he can set up his half of our new living arrangement.
Charlotte scoots next to me when he disappears from sight.
“So, what’s your opinion on beards?” she asks.
Charlotte’s casual question flies from her mouth, unaware of the depths of my psyche she is now plumbing. It’s an embarrassing fact I’ve always kept vaulted—that as a little girl…Bob Ross was my first crush. While I painted happy little trees, I envisioned a Van Dyke Brown cabin tucked in the towering woods where my bearded Prince Charming lived, laughed, and beat the devil out of his brushes. RIP devil! I even wrote a poem about it for a school art presentation.
Long and scruffy, somewhat fluffy.
Perm that is full, hair you can pull.
Beards have no fear, this much is clear.
A beard rules the world, like my heart unfurled.
Clearly, I’m not Maya Angelou and my poem caused endless teasing from my classmates, but my eight-year-old heart didn’t care. Funny enough, as an adult, I’ve never dated a man with a beard. It’s not like you can just demand someone grow one. Not every man can sprout glorious hair from their face. But the ones that do? Oh man, hotness.
“I’m waiting on your answer,” Charlotte says.
I shrug. “They’re okay.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says. “That look on your face says otherwise. Did you know full beards imply long-term commitment?”
I look over at her. “I’m the last person on earth that would know anything about long-term commitment.”
“That’s not all. I wrote a fascinating article for the magazine about how women perceive men with beards to have good fathering abilities.”
Her words cause flannel-clad babies to toddle into my mind. I shoo them away for a nap. “Can we not do this? You know I’m a businesswoman now, not a baby maker.”
She holds up her hand in mock surrender. “Don’t hate the messenger.”
Thankfully, the conversation ends when my new boothmate returns laden with goods in his arms.
“Is this your first time?”