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It took ten minutes, but we eventually narrowed down the selection options. I wrote down her email and promised I’d send example photos over as soon as I could. She thanked me profusely before hanging up.
I pulled my cell out from beneath the counter to email her. A new message was on the screen from a number I recognized from this morning, and I pressed my fingerprint against the screen to unlock it.
DICK GUY: Shit, I’m so sorry. Sorry if it offended you in any way.
I raised my eyebrows. It took a lot more than a dick picture to offend me. I hit the reply box to assure him it was fine.
ME: Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen worse dicks. Yours is pretty nice, as far as dicks go.
Was that a little forward?
Maybe.
But he’d started it, so…
DICK GUY: LOL. Thanks. As far as dicks go, I’m pretty proud of it.
ME: You should be. Although your picture-taking angle is a little off. Hold the phone flatter against your stomach for maximum effect.
DICK GUY: Thanks for the tip. I don’t usually send these kinds of pictures, so that’s the last time I use online dating apps after watching a football game with the guys.
ME: Yeah. Bad idea, dude. I’m guessing she gave you the wrong number.
DICK GUY: Unless you’re the blonde girl I was chatting to at 2am, yeah.
ME: Not even close. My hair is purple.
DICK GUY: Thank fuck for that.
DICK GUY: Anyway, again, I’m really sorry… apologize to your boyfriend or husband or whoever for me.
ME: Nobody to apologize to. I’m single. It was an honest mistake.
DICK GUY: You’re being pretty nice about this.
ME: Like I said, nice dick. *shrug emoji*
DICK GUY: Six billion people in the world, and the person I sent it to was someone who compliments me. LOL. Thank you.
ME: You’re welcome. I believe in complimenting someone every day.
DICK GUY: Solid idea. Well, I’ve never seen them, but I’m sure you have great tits.
I burst out laughing. He wasn’t wrong, in my opinion. I did have great tits, especially depending on the bra I wore, but I wasn’t going to share that anytime soon.
ME: Thanks. If I was a picture sending type, I’d send one to thank you for the presumptuous comment, but I’m not, so you’ll just have to imagine a great pair of tits and attach them to a bodyless, headless person with purple hair.
DICK GUY: I’m not the picture type either, but we all make mistakes while under the influence of beer and your team winning.
ME: I didn’t think football season had started yet.
DICK GUY: College football. I played once upon a time and like to yell at everyone that they’re doing it wrong.
ME: Don’t tell me you were the quarterback.
DICK GUY: All right, I won’t.
ME: Ugh. So cliché. The quarterback has a great dick. That’s been written in every football-themed romance novel ever. Nobody ever cares about the big guys in defense.
DICK GUY: None of the guys I’ve played with have had abs. According to years of dating, abs are important.
ME: They’re certainly a bonus. A bit like winning the lottery. Five balls are great, but they’d be better with the bonus ball.
DICK GUY: Interesting analogy. I assume great tits work the same way.
ME: Obvious. I’m a fan of equality. Like eating a salad for dinner and a slice of cake for dessert.
DICK GUY: Again, solid idea. Sounds like you have your life figured out.
ME: Not at all.
DICK GUY: We seem to have a lot in common.
ME: Except a nice dick. I don’t have one of those.
DICK GUY: I don’t have nice tits, so again, even.
ME: Huh. You’re right.
DICK GUY: It happens. LOL. I have to go to work. Sorry again, and thanks for being cool about all this.
ME: Don’t worry about it. Shit happens.
CHAPTER TWO – REAGAN
Shit Really Does Happen
“Aunt Bethel,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I am not going to stage a boudoir shoot for you to give Harry James for his birthday. He has a pacemaker and a stent. You’ll kill the poor man.”
She leaned over the kitchen table, her blue hair flying in corkscrew curls around her face. I guessed she’d gotten a perm at some point in the last few days, because it hadn’t looked like that the last time I’d seen her.
She pointed at me, her bright-pink nail flashing through the air as numerous bangles jangled on her wrist. “You should see the posters in his bedroom at the care home!”
“I don’t think they like it when you call it a care home. They prefer the term ‘shared community’ at Creek Community.”
“Creek Community is a stupid name for a care home, and if there are live-in nurses, it’s either a hospital or a care home.”
“Nurses don’t live at the hospital.”
“Ah-ha! It’s a care home!” She threw her arm into the air in triumph, and I winced, waiting for her bone to pop out or something.
