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Women like Daisy don't find good men.
At least, that's what she'd come to believe, after years of crushing failure. The pieces had never fallen into place for her, from the lackluster homecomings that became awkward dorm room hangouts that became dull blind dates; from the fleeting moments that she'd actually felt the stir of mutual attraction only to realize after far too many wasted tears that she was an ego boost and nothing more; until finally it all came down to another night swiping through endless photos of men she'd, at best, see once or twice before running out of texts to send and frankly, quacks to give.
Perhaps that first statement needed to be revised. She'd done her share of soul searching during lonely nights of wine and period pieces (certainly more than she'd ever admit). It's not that she couldn't find a good man; she'd found plenty of them (as well as plenty of bird-brained jerks, but that was neither here nor there). She just couldn't find a good man for her. And yes, she understood very well that the problem was hers. She was just a little too much of everything.Too much temper. Too much sass. Too much ambition. Too many expectations. Beautiful enough to be intimidating but not to turn heads. Smart enough to want an equally smart man but not enough to easily attract them. Independent enough to struggle in relationships but not enough not to care.
"You'll find him," her best friend had told her during a late night half-drunken pouring of hearts in Daisy’s apartment, dripping with her typical faithful sincerity that was as frustrating as it was endearing, "I promise."
"Thanks Minnie," Daisy said with the most spirit she could muster. 'I just don't know. It's hard to keep believing."
"I get that, I really do," Minnie replied in earnest, placing a hand on her arm.
Daisy kept her appreciative smile, because Minnie meant well. But no, she didn't get it. Minnie was everything Daisy struggled to be: sweet and upbeat, naturally compassionate, slow to anger. And of course, she'd found a great guy years ago, and they'd been sickeningly adorable ever since. Daisy envied their happiness and compatibility, but didn’t aspire towards their relationship. Her love was never going to look that fairy-tale perfect. She needed someone who could handle her rougher edges, and usually that meant someone with rougher edges of their own. Someone who understood what it was like to just barely not fit.
"Whatever," Daisy said with the firm tone that meant she wanted to end the conversation, "I don't have time to date anyway, not with the way Ms. Glamour has been working me lately."
"Has she started to show you more respect?" Minnie asked, topping off her wineglass. They’d almost killed this bottle, quite the feat for a pair their size.
"Heck no. Last week she accused me of being a layabout because I didn't answer her call telling me to completely rearrange the party schedule.You know, at 3am, when I had the audacity to be sleeping."
"Ooh!" Minnie shook her head furiously--which, coming from a girl with a demeanor somewhere between a 50’s sitcom housewife and a pixie, had the opposite effect from what was intended, "I wish I could give her a word or two!"
"Yeah, well…" Daisy spared a hopeful glance towards the corner of her apartment den. The space had been converted into a makeshift studio, with fabrics hanging on repurposed laundry racks and walls papered in reference photos and design sketches. A single mannequin stood in the center, draped in glittering blue and sea-green tulle. The fledgling foundation of what may just be her best work ever. "I'm sure it'll all be worth it soon."
“It’ll be gorgeous,” Minnie assured her.
“Yeah, it will.”
Not that Emma Glamour was ever going to see it.
At least, that was what it seemed like from the inside of a stuffy elevator. The weeks of juggling phonecalls and sleepless nights, gritting teeth at her boss’s snide remarks and blame, pinpricks in her fingers and bags under her eyes. It would all amount to nothing, thanks to a glass of sticky rum and yet another deluded bozo thinking Glamour was their ticket to fame.
This wasn’t the first time Daisy had felt her hopes and dreams crash in pitiful slow motion, but it was certainly the first time in a while it had been quite so comically pathetic.
“...but that’s not going to happen since you got us stuck in here with your band’s dumb plan!” she snapped. A genuine look of guilt crossed his face. A strange sense of resignation struck her in return. “Not that she ever listens to me anyway.” Somewhere in her gut, anger blended with a tinge of embarrassment. Daisy may be much in too many ways, but she was self-aware all the same. If he was a deluded bozo, she was no better. A musician and a girl with a dress. Both clinging to the same old pipedream.
She should know better by now.
“No one listens to me either,” he mumbled, “they don’t understand me.”
Somehow the anger fell away. “That’s funny, I understand you perfectly.” The man was silent for a moment, her words registering, until his face slowly lifted into a gentle smile. Daisy recognized the appreciation in his eyes. She’d felt once or twice before, the most recent being when Minnie assured her that she didn’t mind Daisy’s fierce emotions or find them “difficult.”
“It’s a part of Daisy,” she’d said, “you can work on it if you want, but I never thought it was something you had to change.” Casual, unconditional acceptance. There was no taste as warm.
She gave him a good look for the first time, with a mind unclouded by distraction or frustration. He was cute. In a scruffy, awkward sort of way. But his eyes were kind, his hands were strong (she’d found as much wrapped in her purse strap), and well...she always liked a man in uniform.
And then he sang for her, and it was like coming home.
She felt so many things, the strongest being the jolt of determination he’d sent through her. She was endlessly imperfect, but somewhere between that tempestuous attitude and tendency to break things there was also endless fight. And no one, especially not some stuck-up ostentatious condescending wanna-be peacock is going to talk down to her ever again.
Talk down to either of them.
Maybe women like Daisy don’t find good men. Maybe, she thought as she pulled him into the vents, they hold out for the great ones.