Timothy Willis Sanders

Pat massaged the program in his hands as he read.

–‘The true story of a man addicted to prostitutes for twenty years of his life.’ Sounds interesting. The director will be here for a Q and A after the film.
–I know. I told you all this. You’re just trying to change the subject.
–No, I’m not.
–Yes. You are.

He folded the program and considered the maturity of another denial.
–I'm just saying, strip clubs are just a way to celebrate birthdays. We go maybe two or three times a year.
–Birthdays have nothing to do with it. Nothing. You know that.
–All I'm saying...
–You're saying you objectify women in a disgusting way but don't feel bad about it because your friends are doing it too?

Pat bristled. He watched her glare at the dancing movie snacks painted above the box office. He could've said no to this, not called her, but what would he say if he ran into her at the grocery store again? He stood on his toes to gauge the forward length of the line. He turned around to see how long the line extended out. He saw a teenager with big ears and freckles making spit bubbles with his mouth. There was no telling how long they’d be there. He tried again.

–I’m sorry. It’s just innocent fun.

Mary moved slightly away from Pat. He wanted to reach for her, but he felt like his hand would go right through her body. Pat began to worry strangers would start to assume he was alone. The line moved, tottering the heads in front of them. They took two steps towards the box office before Pat tried again.

–Listen. Truth is I never have much fun. The music is pretty obnoxious. Some of the guys are really weird.