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“She can’t go home for another four weeks or so,” Joy says as she reaches out to pet the kitten. “She still has some growing to do.”
“She’s so sweet,” Starla says. “I’ll name her Felicity Mae.”
“Oh, what a precious name,” Joy says with a grin. “I’ll start calling her that now. Do you want to see some puppies?”
“YES!”
“No,” I say at the same time, shaking my head. “Hell, no. She’ll want one of those, too, and that’s a hard no.”
“Why do you hate fun?” Starla demands, passing the sleeping kitten back to Joy. “I’m not taking one home, I’m just going to enjoy them for a minute. Don’t kill my thunder.”
“Come on,” Joy says, leading us out of the office and back to the main animal area. She opens a cage, and six lab puppies come lumbering out and straight to Starla, who just sits on the floor and opens her arms wide.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathes. She pulls two in for kisses, while the others climb over her and nibble on her jeans. “This is what heaven looks like. This is it.”
“They’re cute,” I concede, but narrow my eyes at Joy. “And I’m not taking any of them.”
“They’re all spoken for,” she says with a laugh. “But who doesn’t like playing with a whole herd of puppies?”
“I sure do,” Starla says with a laugh as she tumbles backwards, three puppies all trying to lick her face at the same time. “Oh, Lord, this is the best way to start the day. We should do this every day.”
“I’ll stick with coffee,” I say, but can’t help but laugh as the puppies continue playing with her. They are funny. “I hate to break up this lovefest, but I have to go to work.”
“Fine.” Starla sits up and sighs, but the puppies attack again, and she falls onto her back in a fit of giggles and sloppy puppy kisses. “Give me a minute.”“I have to work tonight,” Starla says with a frown two days later. I just arrived at her house after work and brought Caesar salads with blackened chicken from Salty’s with me for dinner.
“What kind of work?” I take a bite of my salad and decide it needs more lemon, so I squirt some on top.
“Fan mail.” She swallows a piece of chicken and takes a drink of water. “I have so much of it piled up, and I’ll have another delivery next week. I need to get caught up.”
“People still send actual letters?”
“Some, yeah. Or cards. Gifts. It’s nice of them, and I want to read it myself, so my publicist’s office sends me a weekly box. If there’s not much to send, they’ll wait a week or two.”
“Interesting. Okay, I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’ll be fun. Where are they?”
She shoves a big bite of salad into her mouth and walks to a spare bedroom, coming back with the biggest-sized flat rate mailing box in her arms. She sets it down on the floor between us and then sits in her chair, her feet pulled up under her.
“That’s them.”
“Okay, as we read, I suggest we make piles, sorting them out. We’ll do one for things you want to respond to, another for gifts, and a third for miscellaneous.”
“You’re ridiculously organized,” she says.
“You’re welcome.” I wink and reach for an envelope. There’s a card inside. “It says Just a note to make your day brighter.” I flip it open and then snap it shut again.
“What is it?”
“A dick pic.” I throw the card on the floor outside of the box. “That’s the trash pile.”
“Okay, that’s funny.”
“Not funny.” I take a bite of chicken. “Let’s wait to look through the rest until after I’m done eating. Just in case.”
“Good idea.” She eyes the card on the floor. “Was it at least a good dick pic?”
“Does that exist?”
“I mean, if you were to send me one, it would be a good one.”
“It’s not my dick, and I won’t ever be sending you a photo of it. You can just see it in real life.”
She’s giggling now, holding her sides with the hilarity of it all.
“I don’t understand the dick pic. Do men really think we want to see that? Are y’all so proud of what God gave you that you can’t help yourselves from showing it off? Because I have to tell you, as a female, we do not want photos of your penis. I enjoy your penis, and I still don’t want a keepsake photo of it. Dicks aren’t the most attractive part of the male anatomy.”
“I’m uncomfortable with this conversation.” I shift in my seat and frown at my salad. “I don’t send pictures of myself naked.”
“Oh, men don’t even have to be naked to send them. All they do is just whip them out and snap a photo. It’s disgusting.”
