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“I considered that one, but chose to go in a different direction.”
“Stale Bread: A Year in the Life of a Loaf.”
“No, but I’m going to make a note of these amazing ideas for book number three.”
I’m having so much fun, I don’t want it to end. I’ve laughed and cut up with the other splicers, I often call them my brothers, but I’ve never felt this… connected to anyone before.
“All kidding aside. I have to know the subject and title of your next book.” Our glances connect, then hold. Although I don’t know her well, it seems she’s having just as much fun and perhaps feeling just as connected as I am.
“It’s going to be another fifty-state odyssey. Potty Palaces: An Outhouse Expedition.” She’s quick to add, “It’s a working title. Maybe you’ll have a better idea.”
I love that she’d even consider my input, but when I put that thought aside, I allow the brilliance of her idea to wash over me.
“So you find the oddest outhouse in each state, take pics, and tell stories.”
“Yep.”
“Will this give money for charity?”
“Yes. I haven’t tied it down yet, but am thinking of giving money to the parks and recreation funds of the county where the lucky john is located.”
“Brilliant and altruistic,” I praise. It’s so easy to do when you’re in the presence of such quirky greatness. “What’s the best outhouse yet?”
“I’ve only been to six states on this one, but perhaps the ‘skys-crapper’ in Gays, Illinois.”
When I give her a puzzled look, she adds, “Skyscrapper? Crapper? It’s a two-story facility.”
“Promise you’ll show me your pictures when I have time to savor them.”
“What if I told you they’re in my phone? The phone that has no battery because you threw it into the next county.”
“I’d say you’re lying because you’re a consummate professional and the pictures are certain to be in your camera.” I point to the item in question, which is still in her tight grip.
“You’re too smart for your own good, Sylas.”
“Yes, smart enough that I won the bet.”
My mouth got the better of me. In one moment, we were laughing and joking, and then I felt compelled to remind her that she hadn’t shocked me with her book title, and I won the bet—a kiss.
The hut is eerily silent. I don’t know what she’s thinking on her end, but I know what’s happening on my end. The most salient factor is my cock, which is about to twitch out of my pants. Secondary to that is my heart, which is beating faster than if I were running a marathon; my palms, which are suddenly sweaty; and my mouth, which is as dry as the Mojave Desert.
Even though I’m swimming in discomfort, I’m glad I blurted out my comment. If I hadn’t done it in a hurry, I would have never worked up the courage to claim my prize.
“You weren’t… joking? You seriously want to… kiss me?”
Shit! Oh shit. I wasn’t supposed to bring it up. She didn’t mean it. Not only have I offended her, but I’ve made things awkward and we have to spend the next several days together in this small hut with its one bed. I need to fix this—now—and I don’t have a clue how to do it.
“Uh. No. No. Just joking. Of course I knew we were just kidding around.” I’m backpedaling, trying to make the awkward moment disappear before the floor swallows me in mortification.
“Give me a moment.” I hold up a finger. “I’ll come up with some cute alternatives to Potty Places: An Outhouse Expedition.” I’ll do anything to change the subject and make the embarrassing conversation go away, so I throw out the first thought that comes to mind, “Outhouse Oddities: Quirky Commodes in Every State.”
She says nothing. Gone is our easy back-and-forth repartee. Gone is the effortless eye contact.
“Restroom Reveries: Outhouses from Coast to Coast?” I’m desperate now, grasping at straws. “The Throne Zone: America’s Best Outhouses? Outhouse Overviews: Architectural Wonders of Waste?” My ideas, and my emotions, are devolving.
“I’ve fucked everything up.” Closing my eyes, I shake my head, pissed at myself for destroying the easy camaraderie we’d built.
“I’ll kiss you, Sylas. That was the deal.”
