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“He’s practically perfect, Denise. Seriously, he’s funny and sweet, sexy and hot…” I let out a large sigh.
“You’re gone on him this fast?” Denise asks and I resist the urge to say yes. I don’t want her worried about me. Yet, I think I am.
“I’m not sure I’d say gone,” I hedge, but I’m not going to deny that I like him more than I can ever remember liking anyone, even my eighth-grade, fantasy boyfriend.
Denise laughs.
I’ve long bored her with conversations on how Ronnie Craft was perfection personified. He transferred to my school from Ohio and instantly I was just in love. It happened that quick. He had this beautiful blonde hair—and since I don’t normally like blondes, that was strange for me to like—it looked like liquid gold. He had beautiful blue eyes that reminded me of the summer sky at my grandfather’s house in Montana. He was tall and lanky, towering over me. I was five-seven, so that was something that had never happened. I was painfully tall, shy, chubby, and very awkward. He was also my make-believe boyfriend, because he was an amazing guitar player, who had music gigs regularly and was the best player on the school basketball team. All the girls flocked to him, including my cousin, Loretta. It killed my soul when they dated, but no one ever knew, I kept it hidden. No one knew a lot about me. I faded into the woodwork. Ronnie sure as heck never knew I was crazy about him, or he was my make-believe boyfriend. He could never be attracted to the awkward, clumsy girl that I was. So, he became a dream.
“I hear Ronnie is bald and really ugly these days,” Denise jokes, knowing I was pulled into my memories when I go quiet. I’m not the same girl that I was back then. I love the life I’ve built and I’m so proud of myself and undeniably happy. Still, when I think back to the person I was in school, it hurts. It makes me want to go back in time and tell myself that I’m going to kick ass and take names in the future—even being overly fluffy.
“He’s actually just as cute as always, married with two kids,” I laugh. “His wife and I talk all the time online.”
“You sure are different, Lee.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I mumble, kind of embarrassed.
“You’re the best person I know, Lee. It’s a very a good thing. I’m just amazed sometimes at how truly sweet you are.”
Suddenly, I’m kind of glad she can’t see me blushing.
“Anyway,’ I breathe. “I really like him, Denise—like a lot. I think he might even tick all the wants we had written down when you helped me fill out the application.
“Even the one about being good in bed?” she asks.
“He flirts, a lot,” I respond, thinking about it. “And there’s a definite attraction between us. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever imagined.”
“I guess there’s no other choice than trying him out. Find out for yourself. Then, of course, calling me and letting me know.”
“Denise!” I laugh.
“I’m not asking for all the details, but you could give me a review.”
“You want me to have sex with Eugene and review it?” I cackle, shaking my head at her.
“Hey, you could at least grade him on the universal scale.”
“The universal scale?”
“Yeah. All single women should know this scale, Lee. It’s a straight scale of one to ten. One being you like him, but after this if you keep dating you will need to buy stock in batteries. A five would be he can get you there, but he needs a lot of instruction and a detailed map.”
“Okay, so what would be a ten?”
“Three orgasms, you almost passed out and you’re ruined for any other man,” she explains.
“Um, Denise, do those men even exist?” I ask, blinking.
“Hell, if I know. I’m married. What heat we had has kind of cooled down to a slow boil. It’s good, but it used to be so much better.”
“Oh please, you’re ridiculously happy.”
“Girl, I am! I wouldn’t trade my man for anything. But marriage is a give and take. Some of the excitement leaves but there are other things that just get better.”
“Well, regardless, it’s not like I can just sleep with him right now, Denise. I mean, we’ve only met in person once and talked on the phone since then. What kind of woman would I be if I slept with him this quickly?”
“Lee, you need to pull yourself out of the dark ages. You like him and he likes you. No sense in delaying a little brown chicken, brown cow,” she sings the end and catches me off guard.
“What does that even mean?” I ask, puzzled. “That makes no sense. How much wine have you had?” I can’t help but laugh.
