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“Your building is an ugly piece of glass and steel, though it has a certain charm.” I know what’s coming next. “It’s like a . . . a giant ornamental phallus. You should have it made in miniature and sell them to the porn Oscars people. They could award it to dudes who couldn’t keep it up for the whole shoot.”
“Your mind is a strange and wondrous place. And this building is beautiful. It’s a piece of history in the making.”
“And none of that would change if you moved out for the renovation. Why put yourself through it?”
I give a theatrical-sounding sigh. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” How could she when she hasn’t lived my life? When she wasn’t compelled to live in shit-box houses in the shithole towns, being grateful for a roof over my head while worrying it all might still be ripped away. “What do you want, Hannah-Banana?” As if I didn’t already know.
“I want to know who that girl was you were talking to yesterday?”
“Jealous, my love?”
“Totally,” she deadpans. “Gimme. Information. Why were you looking at the cute waitress like you wanted to fuck and strangle her at the same time?”
“Because I’m a deviant like that.”
She makes a noise like an unhappy buzzer. “Try again, hotshot.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Han Solo.”
“Ew. Han Solo is a rude, sexist, arrogant pig. I am none of these things.”
“But you are resourceful, courageous, and very cool under fire. Plus, your best bud is a hairy dude.”
“I’m not sure. See, best friends tell each other things.”
“Our friendship boundary stops at toenail painting, braiding our back hair, and airing the shit we don’t want to talk about. Remember?”
“I must’ve missed that note in the best friend handbook. She broke your heart, didn’t she?”
“She did not.” I scoff. She did worse. She broke my mother’s heart.
“Well, whoever she was, she went to a lot of trouble to get your attention.”
I say nothing.
“Come on, spill the tea!” she pleads. Demands.
“I could go for some tea. And by that, I mean brunch.”
“Can’t. I’ve got Pilates booked.”
“Pie and lattes? Count me in!”
“And then I’m gonna go for my hot-girl walk.”
“Picking up or dropping off?”
“Rude!”
“You don’t need me to tell you you’re hot. You get those boys on the tech floor all sweaty just at the sound of your heels.”
“They get sweaty because they’re frightened of me.”
“And that’s the way you like it.”
“Well, I can see this conversation has come to an end. But let me tell you how hurt I am that you haven’t shared, friend.”
“You’ll get over it.”
