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Because we are having fun, she says. Fun is good. Right?
I cut my eyes at Ron, making sure that he's not paying any attention to this.
Yes, I admit. Fun is good.
So send me a picture.
But I'm not wearing panties, I joke.
Even better.
Ron coughs into his hand, and I tuck the phone back into my pocket, semi-certain that she'll text me back fairly soon. A picture? I don't know. But then, what's the harm?
“So, hey, I wanted to ask you,” Ron begins, his eyes fixed on the television as though he doesn't want to look at me. His stiffness and discomfort make me instantly wary.
“Shoot,” I tell him.
“Yeah… not really sure how to say this. Do you remember Kelly? From my office?”
I reach back in my memory, trying to place a face with the name Kelly. Any face. Young face? Old face? Somebody with wavy hair, I think. I get a mental image of frizzy, thick hair, held back by a comb with a pink plastic flower in it. A pretty face, sort of doll like and pale, with freckles across the nose. Plump and appealing. Friendly and kind.
“From the block party?” I ask, fairly certain I've got the right woman. “She made a pie?”
“Yeah, she's the office pastry chef,” Ron chuckles. “Nice girl. She was asking about you.”
I shake my head, wondering if there's something I’m supposed to remember about her. “She needs a bodyguard? Private investigator or something?”
“No, dude,” Ron sniffs irritably. “Like, asking about you. You should take her out.”
“Oh!” I bark out. The volume of my voice takes me by surprise. “Kelly! You want me to ask Kelly out?”
He holds his hand out in midair, then lets it fall palm-down on his thigh.
“She thinks you're cute.”
For just a second, I try to imagine it. Sweet, freckled Kelly. She reminds me most of a baby seal, the kind you see in videos lying on their back, floating playfully downstream.
“Yeah, I don't think she's my type,” I mumble.
Just to try it out, I try to imagine bending Kelly over the arm of the sofa and slapping her ass until she squeals. Nope. Kelly is not that kind of girl.
Then, just for grins, I try to imagine her sending me a picture of her panties via text. Probably full coverage, utility panties. Strike two.
“Well, what is your type? Trina? I don't think that's happening.”
“Never say never,” I quip. “There might still be something there.”
He raises his beer to his lips again and then glances at me over the top of the bottle. “Oh yeah? You serious?”
I shrug. “There might still be… you know, a chance. Maybe. There've been… some signs.”
Ron sighs through his nose. “If you say so,” he says noncommittally. I hear the caution in his voice. He never really liked Trina all that much. “I thought that ship had sailed. You didn't seem too broken up about it, what changed your mind?”
Send me a picture, the words pop back into my head. That kind of playfulness would definitely change my mind. I'm intrigued, I have to admit. It's so unlike her, I want to follow the thread and see where it leads.
“Just keeping an open mind I guess,” I sniff, but as I tell him he's already cast his attention somewhere else.
My attention is somewhere else too. Dahlia and Bunny will be back soon, so I need to act pretty quick. A picture… of what? Of my junk? I don’t want to do something effeminate and strange like sending her a shot of my nipple or anything like that. That sounds kind of stupid.
