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It’s from an unknown number.
Hi Lemon, my name is Bella Chortsky. Your sister thought we should talk. I’m back in town. Do you want to have a drink tonight or grab some coffee tomorrow?
Oh, skunk. It’s the owner of Belka—as in, a business contact—so of course, the idiotic drunken me replied sometime last night:
Sorry, no can do, Bellissima.
I stop reading.
Bellissima? Was that autocorrect, or did I really call a woman I’ve never met “beautiful” in Italian?
I hope it was autocorrect. It has been failing a lot as of late.
Unfortunately, the message continues:
I’m in Vergas.
Vergas? Is that an autocorrect for Vegas, or did I switch to Spanish, where that word means “slave”? Maybe it was the flogger’s subliminal influence?
Oh, and here’s the kicker:
I’m a boot to marry the best-smelling man, ever. Grain Czech?
Yes. Boot, grain, and Czech—oh, and why couldn’t the autocorrect change that smelling into anything else, even smelting?
There go those sponsorship opportunities.
Or maybe not.
There’s a reply from Bella:
Wow. Sounds like you’re having a very good time there. I want to know more. Hit me up when you’re back in town.
Okay, maybe not all is lost here. Not unless my final reply ruined my chances, which is very possible. A few hours later, when I was even more drunk, this is what I wrote:
As swoon as I’m back in Mew Pork, I’ll shit you lard.
I smack myself on the forehead, hard. Or should I say, lard.
“That bad, huh?” Art covers his hand with mine—probably by accident.
I turn my phone over quickly. It’s bad enough Bella saw that atrocity; no reason my new husband should. “It’s fine. How about yours?”
“Not so bad, especially compared to how everyone took the news of my retirement.” He doesn’t remove his hand.
The fluttering in my stomach feels like the gentle brushing of wings from baby swans. “You’ve retired?”
He nods. “You said you’re not backing out of our deal, so...”
I flap my lashes at him stupidly. “Just like that? You’re not a ballet dancer anymore?”
“No, I still am. I won’t leave the company in the lurch. I’m going to do a number of performances until they find a replacement. But, yeah. The cat is out of the bag.”
Wow. I admire his decisiveness. I would’ve waited for the green card before cutting off my paycheck. Then again, I should give myself some credit. If I really cared about paychecks, I’d work in finance or real estate, not follow my passion: blogging about all the different ways to visit the safety deposit box.
“Would you like a drink?” the flight attendant asks, approaching our seats.
Art pulls his hand away and gruffly says no at the same exact time as I do.
