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Does it matter? Gotta go.
I shut my phone down. All the way. Which means this is bad. Worse than bad. If my mother has seen that picture on social media, it means everyone has.
Everyone. Because once something reaches the Facebook feed of SharonandRoyMonahaninAnderhill, you know it’s oversaturated.
All I can do at this point is to do what Perky said. Meet her and Fiona at Beanerino. If anyone can come up with a strategy for managing this, it’s Fiona, who is a one-woman anti-shame campaign.
And if anyone can make me feel better about becoming an accidental porn-star-by-proxy, it’s Perky.
* * *
“I told you to keep that damn phone charged!” Perky scolds as I sit down with a tray covered in gluten-free pastries and not-disgusting pastries and better-than-orgasmic coffees at our favorite table at Beanerino. This place used to be a fast-food restaurant, so there’s none of the hipster ambience of some of the smaller, hand-roasted batch coffee shops that have popped up in the suburbs, but it has clean bathrooms and a drive-thru, two features you can’t overlook.
They cater to the SUV-driving mommy crowd who stop between Pilates classes and salt therapy, listening to self-help audiobooks titled Busy Is Just Another Word for Failure and Apply Your MBA to Parenting: Ten Steps to IPO Your Kids and Leverage Their Success.
With the word Their scratched out on the cover and Your handwritten in.
“You wouldn’t have gotten into this mess if you’d listened to me,” Perky pronounces in a sing-songy voice. She has a way of making me feel shame without shaming me. Pretty sure she’s secretly my mother.
“It’s not my fault!”
“Low battery life is a function of poor planning. Proper planning prevents porny people, Mal.”
I pause, mid-sip. “I am holding a one-hundred-forty-degree beverage. Don’t test me, Perk.”
“How is it? We’re using a new Malabar and we’re worried weirdos like you will ruin it with your heavy-cream requests.”
“I like zero carbs in my coffee. What’s wrong with that?”
“Then drink it black. It’s that good!”
I shudder.
“You ever try to froth heavy cream?” she huffs, as if we’re talking about micro cardiac surgery for preemies.
“That barista in Florida on Spring Break did it. Mastered it. Had it down to a science,” I taunt.
“She was Norwegian. Pretty sure her technique involved some weird hygge ritual.”
But I got under Perky’s skin. Always do when this topic rolls around.
“If anyone can do it, you can.”
“Quit rubbing my nose in my inadequacies. Let’s talk about yours! Turns out you did become a porn star. Fi and I were right back in high school,” she says, pulling away before I can hit her.
“Are you two done? Because I’m patiently waiting to look at your porn,” Fiona announces as she arrives in a whirlwind of color and essential oils. If a Himalayan salt lamp were a person, it would look like Fiona. All earth tones and soft lighting, she’s made a complete reversal of her hardcore butch look back in high school. Her hair is now dyed a pale peachy blonde, long and flowing down her back, all her piercings grown in, tattoos of fairies and stars and butterflies dotting her shoulders.
Big change from the shaved head, bound breasts, flannel, and henna tats all over every surface of her exposed skin, seventh grade through twelfth.
“You’re not supposed to like porn, Fiona. You look like a preschool teacher in an ashram,” I grumble at her.
“Don’t joke. There was an ad for that on Craigslist the other day. I nearly applied.”
Perky makes a throat-cutting gesture at Fi. “Now is really not the time to bring up job openings on Craigslist.”
Fiona suppresses a laugh and gives me a doe-eyed look. “You seriously applied for a fluffer job?”
“I thought it was a house fluffer job,” I say for the thousandth time, my teeth gritted.
