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Morelli threw his arm around me. “Sometimes that's a tough call.”
“My mother expects me to play at Valerie's wedding.”
“You can fake it,” Morelli said. “How hard can it be? You just make a couple passes with the bow and then you faint or pretend you broke your finger or something.”
“That might work,” I said. “I'm good at faking it.”
This led to a couple moments of uncomfortable silence from both of us.
“You didn't mean... ?” Morelli asked.
“No. Of course not.”
“Never?”
“Maybe once.”
His eyes narrowed. “Once?”
“It's all that comes to mind. It was the time we were late for your Uncle Spud's birthday party.”
“I remember that. That was great. You're telling me you faked it?”
“We were late! I couldn't concentrate. It seemed like the best way to go.”
Morelli took his arm away and started flipping through channels with the remote.
“You're mad,” I said.
“I'm working on it. Don't push me.”
I got up and closed the cello case and kicked it to the side of the room.
“Men!”
“At least we don't fake it.”
“Listen, it was your uncle. And we were late, remember? So I made the sacrifice and got us there in time for dessert. You should be thanking me.”
Morelli's mouth was open slightly and his face was registering a mixture of astonished disbelief and wounded, pissed-off male pride.
Okay, it wasn't that much of a sacrifice at the time, and I knew he shouldn't be thanking me, but give me a break here... this wasn't famine in Ethiopia.
And it wasn't as if I hadn't tried to have an orgasm. And it wasn't as if we didn't fib to each other from time to time.
“I should be thanking you,” Morelli repeated, sounding like he was making a gigantic but futile effort to understand the female mind.
“All right, I'll concede the thanking thing. How about if you're just happy I got you to the party in time for dessert?”
Morelli cut me a sideways look. He wasn't having any of it. He returned his attention to the television and settled on a ball game.
This is the reason I live with a hamster, I thought.
Morelli was still on the couch watching television when I went downstairs to take Bob for his morning walk. I was wearing sweats that I'd found in Morelli's dresser, and I'd borrowed his Mets hat. I clipped the leash on Bob, and Morelli glanced over at me. “What's with the clothes? Trying to fake being me?”
“Get a grip,” I said to Morelli.
Bob was dancing around, looking desperate, so I hurried him out the front door. He took a big tinkle on Morelli's sidewalk and then he got all smiley and ready to walk. I like walking Bob at night when it's dark and no one can see where he poops. At night Bob and I are the phantom poopers, leaving it where it falls. By day, I have to carry plastic pooper bags. I don't actually mind scooping the poop. It's carrying it around for the rest of the walk that I hate. It's hard to look hot when you're carrying a bag of dog poop.
