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“Ouch.”
Meghan considered me carefully while tearing another pita in half. Staring back into those wise emerald eyes, the background noise of the restaurant melted away.
“So you’re telling me you met these two guys in the street — under some very unusual circumstances — and they both took your phone number.”
“Yes.”
“And then they both took you out on dates.”
I shrugged. “They sure seemed like dates.”
“And you said there was chemistry.”
“A fuck-ton of chemistry,” I agreed. “Yes.”
“And these men walked you all the way home, you invited them up…”
I knew where she was going. I rolled my eyes.
“… and somehow neither of them wanted to fuck you.”
And there it was. In stark, perhaps unnecessarily succinct terms.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” sighed Meghan. “If you really wanna know.”
Now shereallypiqued my interest.
“What?”
“Either you found the only two straight men looking for a female ‘friend’ in all of Boston…”
“Or?”
“Or it’s been so long since you got your buns crushed that you’ve totally lost your touch.”
She laughed, stuffing a dolma into her mouth. Which happened to bemydolma, since she’d eaten her own five minutes ago.
“Buns crushed…” I said glumly. “Real nice.”
“Or your pipes cleaned,” Meghan shrugged, “if that’s a bit clearer. Or your cave explored. Or your donut filled—”
“Ewww!”
My friend laughed even louder, and her laughter was lilting and playful and absolutely infectious. Even as the butt of her joke, I couldn’t help but laugh with her.
“Quinn, listen, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with these guys,” she said consolingly, “but it definitely isn’t you. You’re hot. You’re fit. You’re practically glowing. And on top of all that—”
“You don’t think they sensed my…condition,” I mused aloud. “Do you?”
“Not a chance in hell,” Meghan shook her head vehemently. “It’s way too early. And besides, there’s a huge subset of men who very much appreciate a woman in your ‘condition.’ Especially since a woman in your condition—”
“Gets horny at the drop of a hat,” I added for her.
My friend beamed back at me happily, raising a fork in salute. “Touché.”
Meghan tore back into her chicken souvlaki platter, while tapping the blade of her foot on the restaurant’s tiled floor. I followed that blade up to the knee, where it disappeared almost seamlessly against a tan, shapely thigh. My friend had lost the limb while snowboarding, suffering through an agonizing avalanche that tore it violently away. Either that, or there had been a shark attack in Belize. Or an alligator had played tug-of-war with it, deep in the everglades on some hovercraft tour.
The story of Meghan’s leg all depended on who was asking, but each time it was different and more creative. Once, I watched her tell a sexy bartender she’d lost it to a boat propeller, while doing a Hawaiian Tropics photo-shoot. Right before she took the guy home and screwed his brains out.
