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“Don’t forget the dimpled chins and Perfect Taco Ratio Radar,” Fiona chimes in.
“What? No! Where on Earth did you come up with that?” Hope–a strange and fleeting feeling born of fantasy and subconscious wishes–makes my heart skip a beat and rush to catch up.
I also touch my hair involuntarily, because thanks for the unsolicited compliment, Perk.
“Ninth grade. Probably during a football game while we sat in the band bleachers. You told me that. And then you repeated it pretty regularly for the next four years.”
“I was fourteen!”
“You were still saying it at eighteen.”
“That was ten years ago!”
“But I’ll bet your fantasy factory is still working that Will angle really hard.”
Damn her. “How did we get from talking about my awesome apartment to Will Lotham?”
“Because you can’t have a conversation without mentioning him, Mal. It’s like high school all over again, only with more debt and no one’s a virgin.” Perky’s grasping a container of mint sauce like she’s holding it hostage.
“Pfft. The only one of us in high school who was still a virgin was Mal,” Fiona says.
“Uh, thanks? I guess?” I lean across the counter and start opening white take-out containers to find my order.
“I want to learn more about Will Lotham and how he loves your dirty, filthy mouth,” Fiona announces, hands under her chin, giving me a wide-eyed ingenue look that is better than any truth serum. “He said that? And then you let your phone die?”
“I didn’t let my phone die,” I argue.
Perky and Fiona glare at me.
“I didn’t! It wasn’t intentional.”
“It’s never intentional,” Perky snaps back. “But look at the trouble it causes. First, you end up on a porn set with pictures of you all over the internet and almost get arrested because your phone died before I could explain what a fluffer really is. Then you lose out on some great aural sex with Will!”
“What? Oral sex? How the hell did you get from phone sex to oral sex with Will Lotham? We weren’t having oral sex! He only touched his balls and I only touched my boobs!”
“A-U-R-A-L sex,” Perky says slowly, spelling it out. “You know. Phone sex.”
“Will was not trying to have phone sex with me!”
“He totally was. Boobs? Balls?” Perky takes two vegetable pakoras out of the aluminum foil wrap and holds them in her hands suggestively.
“Was not!”
“Mal, when was the last time a client told you over the phone that you had a dirty, filthy mouth?” she asks, dropping the pakoras and tearing off a piece of naan bread, chewing while waiting.
“And touched his junk while talking about your tits,” Fiona adds.
“Stop saying that word,” Perky says, turning her attention to Fi. “You know I hate that word.”
“Tits!” Fiona says, because we’re frozen in time at age fourteen.
“Tits,” I add, because. Just… because. See above.
“I hate you both.” Perky dips a pakora in the mint sauce, taking a big bite. It looks like she’s teabagging Shrek’s ball.
“You can’t hate me,” Fiona declares. “Because I am in charge of the honey-raisin naan.” Holding up the warm, foil-wrapped treat, she grins, triumphant. Every time we eat Indian, we overstuff ourselves at the end with the sweet bread. It’s tradition.
She who holds the honey-raisin naan rules the world.
