Hilda & Hemingway in:

"HAVE YOU SLEPT WITH A MAN...,

LATELY?"

Frank Westcott

"Hey, Hem! Slept with a man lately?"

"Can't say I have. How 'bout you?"

"Nope. Can't say I have either. Get a load of this."

I took the magazine from Hilda's grasp and flipped the glossy pages to the front where I could see who or what was on the cover. I saw a yellow bathing suit holding a Brooke Shields look-alike, and in big white letters across the top, COSMOPOLITAN. I set the magazine down in front of me and re-opened to the page Hilda had marked. There, this time in big, bold, black type, HAVE YOU SLEPT WITH A MAN LATELY?

I paused, shifted my coffee cup so it held the pages flat. Wasn't enough weight so I added the sugar bowl. "What's this all about, Hilda? I don't want to read this stuff. Don't mind the cover, mind you. I don't mind the cover one teensy bit. To heck with the article though."

Hilda's voice boomed from behind the counter. "Ah.... what's the matter? Afraid to read a woman's magazine?"

I looked at Hilda and couldn't tell whether she was smiling or gritting her teeth. Hard to tell sometimes. "Ahhh, geez Hilda... I don't wanna read about how to, how not to, what went wrong with your last relationship crap..."

"Been so long since my last relationship can't recall whether it was real or I dreamt it."

"Yeah..., me too..., Hilda. The pits, aint it."

"Yup. So what you writing today? Polly Waddles and Dooley Toms?"

"Nope. Think I'll write something about sleeping with a man and send it to Cosmopolitan."

"You can't do that. I mean you're not... Well..., I didn't think you were..."

"Don't worry Hilda, I'm not."

"Well, you never know. You arty types." Hilda smiles when she says this. I'm grateful for her small mercy.

"Well, what if I was? What would it matter?"

Hilda stops in her tracks. She was on her way to the window to water her favorite plant. Now she's holding her green waterer with the spout poised in the air ready to drip over her geraniums. I hear a splat on the sill, and watch the water spill over onto her bare toes. Her white sandals get a little, too. I see her nails are painted red again. She always has red nails on Saturdays. Matches her geraniums, although the nail-red is a lot redder red than the geranium red. She turns to look at me. Her mouth is open.

"You're not!"

I'm not sure whether to string her along or play it straight. I rest my head on my hand and say, "No..., can't say I am..., but what if I was?"

"Well..., I'd still serve you coffee. They say it's not catching. I mean you are or you aren't, and it doesn't rub off, so to speak. I think I'll water my plants..."

She waves through the window at Alex Tremaine. "Now, him, I wonder about. Why don't you interview him for your article, if that's what you're so intent on writing about?"

I sip on my coffee. "Don't need to interview people. I can write about it without interviewing people."

"I thought writers were supposed to know about what they write about."

"I know about this."

"What? You said you weren't."

"I'm not."

"Then, how can you write about it?"

"Easy. I know about sleeping with a man."

"You said..."

"Hilda. For heaven's sake. I am a man. Who the heck do you think I've been sleeping with all these years? Cinderella? Faye Dunaway? Margie Morningstar?"

"Oh..., I get it. You've been sleeping with yourself. Is that what you mean?"

I can hear her voice sounding hopeful.

"Of course," I say. "What did you think I meant? Geez! A man should write about sleeping with a man."

"Oh..., I don't know about that. I slept with Wally for twenty-five years before he died. I can tell you about sleeping with a man."

"Can you write about it?"

"No..., but I can tell you about it. Not that I would, mind you. Me and Wally had a special thing. Even after his wife died. For ten years after his wife died. Then, well you know...Wally had that accident. Never was the same after that. So..., are you really going to write about sleeping with a man? Really, Hem?"

"I already have, Hilda. How'd you think we got this far?"

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