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“Yo, Tito!” I called when I hit the room.
Tito didn’t look up from scribbling in a journal.
Again, I took no offense. This was an everyday occurrence, even if the journal might be a book or some YouTube video he was watching on his iPad.
I then approached Luna.
My girl Luna, by the way, had burnished dark-blonde hair I’d witnessed a variety of people get into full-fledged verbal fights as to whether it was blonde or red (I liked my descriptive version best). That hair was full of bouncy curls.
She also had upturned, almond-shaped, silvery light-blue eyes and beautiful, full, pouty lips that had creases in the corners when she smiled, even a little bit.
She was one inch taller than me, standing at five-eight. And, like me, she assiduously maintained her T&A with profuse consumption of Willow’s baked goods and Lucia’s fusion with intermittent injections of things like Lenny’s.
Today, she was in a lacy, white swing dress with a deep ruffle on the very mini-miniskirt, a plunging vee neckline and super-flowy, three-quarter sleeves (straight up, guaranteed good tips in that dress from the hetero men who’d show, which was one, if not the only reason she wore it).
If that didn’t shout boho loud enough at you, she’d topped this with a fawn-colored rancher hat.
“Am I uninvited to your birthday party?” I asked.
“I’m thinking on it,” she returned. “My first inclination is, yes. However, my vision for the party hinges on your sangria, and I don’t think I have time to alter the theme.”
Good news for me, but unsurprising. My sangria was the shit.
“That’s good, because if you shut me out, I would be forced to save your birthday present for next year, and the present I got yourawks.”
This was a total lie. First, I hadn’t got her present yet. Second, I was the worst gift-giver in history.
I didn’t know what my deal was. I just got incapacitated by the stress of it all.
This might be why she shot me a disbelieving look.
“Okay, it’sgonnarawk,” I amended. “I swear, I’m gonna do better this year. I’m on a mission.”
“The Nordstrom Rack gift card didn’t suck last year,” she said.
See?
Totally uninspired.
“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” I groaned.
She held up her right index finger toward me, on which was a slim, gold band fashioned with a teeny evil-eye, which had a little baby sapphire embedded in it, sitting midi on it.
“I got this midi-ring with that gift card,” she reminded me. “And this midi-ring is da bomb. I love this midi-ring.”
“I should have just bought you that ring.”
“You did, in a way.” She studied me a sec before she said, “You are so weird about gifts.”
“You’re my bestie!” I cried. “It has to be perfect.”
“You dragged me to seven stores before you found that tie-dyed bandana for Tito last year. And he wears it once a week.”
We both looked to Tito.
Tito was now staring out the massive, restaurant-wide side window that had an impressive view of Lucia’s planter-boxed herb garden, beyond which was an unimpressive view of the parking lot (though, Tito had planted multiple palo verde trees in the lot for shade and aesthetic purposes, so it was a nicer parking lot than most). He was doing this in an absent way where I wondered if he might be asleep sitting up.
I wondered that a lot.
