Asking for a friend

It's #FlashList June! The To Live & Write in Alameda group is writing short pieces (<500 words) all month based on prompts. The first one is the same as the title, "Asking for a friend."

“Why would you ask me something like that?”

I tilt my head at the woman on the barstool, waiting. 

“What a weird question to ask a stranger,” she continues. She picks up her white wine before swiveling back in my direction. “At least it’s not a pickup line.”

“Well.”

“Wait. It is a pickup line?”

I laugh at the absurd idea. Here I stand in my shapeless tunic, with a nursing bra underneath, in a cocktail bar on a Wednesday when all I want is a few hours of precious sleep before the baby wakes up. And this lovely strawberry-blonde woman with her delicate bones and marble skin thinks I’m try to get her in bed? 

She frowns at my laughter. “You want to know if cancer runs in my family?”

“Yes.”

The woman stares into her glass. “I think my aunt died of it, but she was a smoker. I don’t think we have the cancer gene.”

“Heart disease? Diabetes?”

“Are you doing some kind of market research?”

I’m beginning to lose my nerve. I can feel Valerie watching me from the back corner with anticipation, but the woman on the barstool is watching me closely.

“Something like that,” I tell her. “Are you Danish by any chance?” 

“German,” the woman says, her eyes turning to slits. She sets down the glass and sticks out her hand. “I’m Sharon.” 

“Denise. Are you married, Sharon?”

She laughs loudly. I feel like she’s getting into this strange, borderline-offensive conversation in a way I wouldn’t have expected her to. “You are forward, Denise. No, I’m single, though I should warn you I’m meeting someone here for a date.”

Now I look toward the back table from where Valerie is watching every detail, because I’m losing control of the conversation. I nod at her, the signal that my role as the advance team is wrapping up. I’ve found her a candidate. 

My best friend bursts up from the cocktail table and makes her way across the room. Sharon watches me watching Valerie. When my friend arrives in front of us I note Sharon’s double-take. The two of them look eerily alike. They could be cousins, easily.

“Sorry about that,” Val says to Sharon. “I put Denise up to this. She’s just being a good friend.” 

It’s true, I agreed to sniff out some details about this beautiful woman on Valerie’s behalf, to endure the embarrassment. Because I feel guilty—that I had a healthy baby six months ago, and my lifelong best friend hasn’t been able to have one. 

Now she’s on the lookout for a surrogate. Of all the women we’ve tag-teamed in the past month, Sharon seems to be the closest candidate by far. Single, cancer-free, and Middle European. 

I listen to Val explain this to Sharon. She’s unapologetic and brightly hopeful. As the real reason for our strange conversation sinks in for Sharon, I notice the coy intrigue in her face melt into flat disappointment.