Did he regret his trade? I asked him once. Andrew turned serious, his face strained by sadness. “Only the once,” he said, and, of course, I knew he was referring to the day his wife left him because of what he was.
But most of the time Andrew admits that the bargain was fair. Yet, he still insists that it was the pooka ride that corrupted him, and then he winks and slugs me in the arm.
Penelope
That morning when I went down to the gym, the usual weight-lifting guys suddenly eyed me as if they’d never noticed me “intruding” on their space. I walked over to the treadmill and started my workout, but the guys’ furtive glances didn’t stop. I darted a peek down at my outfit, making sure that I had my tee shirt on. I patted my hair, then wondered if my face was splotchy or something. Did I have a pimple bursting into reds?
But the music on my phone was playing something I especially liked, and I tuned out my surroundings and worked on getting up a sweat, which was what the latest reading I’d done on getting fit said was required. I wasn’t singing along, except mentally, but one of the big, tall, buffs walked over my way and waited for my awareness.
I stopped the music, looked over at him, and said, “Hi.”
“You’re Penelope Casey, right?” he said. “We’re all wondering.”
My first name wasn’t listed on anything public. The mailbox and call box were labeled P. Casey. I felt an inkling of fear creeping up my spine, but the guy was looking rather quizzical, not seriously dangerous. Besides, I was pretty sure these weightlifters were gay.
As if realizing that I was looking a little anxious, he held out his hand and said, “My name’s Jesse. My husband over there is Stan.”