Geek Porn Girl

Note: This is Geek Porn Girl’s first piece of what I’ll call “Fan Slash”. A pen-pal of mine who is a loyal GPG reader and genuine physicist-type calculator-toting geek girl sent this to me as a birthday present. This unexpected gift made me laugh out loud. With her permission, I’m posting it here for you… She did a great job of mimicking my writing style, and even managed to incorporate incredibly bad lesbian haiku. What more could I ask for?

Enjoy! GPG

—————————–

“Hey, Mel. Long time no see. What are you doing in this corner of the world?” Zoey asked when she bumped into her friend at the library.

“Oh, nothing much,” Mel replied. “I’m just getting a book I need for class.”

Zoey moved towards Mel so she could see the book she was holding.

“Hmm. Numerical Methods of Solving Boundary Value Problems and Partial Differential Equations. Sounds like a truckload of fun!”

Mel smiled. She loved to hear Zoey’s voice. She had that delicious hint of an English accent that made Mel want to lean back, close her eyes, and let the words envelop her like a luxurious, intricately woven piece of cashmere.

“Yeah. Tons of fun,” Mel replied, rolling her eyes. “Besides, it’s got gay written all over it as well,” she added. She flipped the book open to the first page where someone had scribbled:

You’re gay and I’m gay

It’s a homosexual day

And I say: Par-tay!

Zoey burst out laughing. “Oh man, that’s some haiku!”

Mel counted the syllables on her fingers and then exploded into giggles as well.

“It is!”

“Hey! Can you two save the outbursts of laughter for the frat parties? This is a library, you know!”

David, the librarian on duty, strode past them with his typically constipated look on his face.

Mel quickly shut the book and tried to stiffle her giggles.

“God, what a jerk,” Zoey mumbled. “Someone should prescribe him some yoga or something.”

Mel nodded in agreement. “I suck at yoga, but I DO know a spell for the measles,” she said, excitedly.

“You don’t really, do you? Oh, you are such a liar. I bet this is one of those trick statement things that you’re always saying to make me believe one thing when you really mean something else.” Zoey sighed, well aware of Mel’s ability to confound her by convoluting the most basic ideas.

“No, no, no. This is a REAL spell that can REALLY cause the measles. Trust me,” replied Mel, in the most convincing tone she could muster (even capitalizing the words she meant to emphasize).

“Oh, really?” Zoey was sarcastically incredulous. “Well let’s have it then. Spill the beans, Miss I-don’t-d0-yoga-because-I’m-busy-reading-books- with-gay-haiku-written-all-over-them.” She was grinning.

“Okay. But first, I want you to pause for a while and notice how awesome this blue pen and blue paper combination is.”

[The author intended this hand-written comment for me… but by leaving it in the text, I like to think it becomes the literary equivalent of an actor “breaking the fourth wall,” or reaching out to the audience in a way that acknowledges its existence. True geek irony. GPG]

“Okay, here’s the spell:

Step One. Find someone who has the measles.”

Zoey nodded, expectantly.

“Step two.” Mel paused, then looked meaningfully into Zoey’s eyes before whispering, “Lick them”.

Zoey burst out laughing for the second time that day.

“Shhh! You’re going to get us into trouble with the constipated librarian again,” said Mel, trying as hard as she could not to start laughing herself.

“Oh Mel, someday you’re going to kill me with laughter,” Zoey blurted out, as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Don’t be silly. Kill you with laughter? That doesn’t even make sense. Laughing shouldn’t even make you sick. But, if I had the measles and you decided to lick me…” Mel teased, letting her voice trail off suggestively.

Zoey’s face flushed suddenly. She took a step closer to Mel before looking around and whispering. “You know, you don’t need to have the measles for me to want to lick you.”

“Um. Uh, heh,” Mel stammered for a moment, then she paused, took a deep breath, grabbed her hefty book with one hand and Zoey’s hand with the other. The girls turned and left the library, each with a smile on her face and each thinking the same thing:

“You’re gay and I’m gay.

It’s a homosexual day.

And WE say: Par-tay!

###

 

It was my friend Teresa’s 30th birthday and I found myself at a dinner party in her honor.

It was one of those pea-soup nights in which San Francisco specializes, the air thick with a mixture of fog and drizzle. I saw her from across the restaurant, waving me over to the table, which was surrounded by women. There were 12 chairs in a space that could comfortably seat 10, and one seat was empty.

I stole a couple of glances around the table while I unloaded my muffler, raincoat, and the large leather tote bag that held the remnants of my lunch and the stack of papers I needed to grade over the weekend. I stuffed the bag under the table, realizing there was no place for it between the chairs and I would have to fight it with my feet through dinner.

Of course, as soon as I pushed it under the table, it tipped over and I saw the uneaten tangerine from lunch roll out toward the feet of the woman across from me. So, rather gracelessly, I crawled under the table to retrieve it. I was there, on my hands and knees, surrounded by a circle of black leather shoes, when I heard Teresa introducing me. “And this is my friend Sasha, who I’ve known since college. Sasha? Where’d you go?” Startled and trying to get out from under the table quickly, I bumped the back of my head on the underside, hearing the glasses rattle above me.

I kept crawling backwards, and finally, the woman next to me stood, moved the two chairs out of the way, and offered me her hand. I clambered to my feet, blowing my hair out of my eyes, and mumbled a quick “hello” to the group. All of their eyes were focused on me, and while most of them smiled, none of them dared laugh. I, self consciously, tried not to make eye contact with any of them.

“So,” one of the women asked jovially, probably in an attempt to break the tension, “are you one of Teresa’s old college flames?”

“What? No,” I stammered. “We’ve never… I’ve never… I mean, I don’t…. I just lived in the same dorm.”

“Sasha’s straight,” Teresa said.

I felt my face get red and hot.

Most of the women went back to talking amongst themselves, now completely disinterested in me as a newcomer. Teresa smiled at me comfortingly.

I looked around the table. I didn’t know anyone else there.

I guessed that most of the women were friends of her from the lesbian community, or from her new job working for a local women’s non-profit.

When she’d called last week to invite me, I had tried to decline.

“Oh I don’t know. Will it really be my crowd?”

“They’re all nice, friendly women. You’ll have a good time.”

“Tell me the truth, Teresa. Are they all gay?”

“Well, a couple might be bi. I haven’t asked. But for the most part, yeah.”

“Crap. Do you know any straight people? Am I your one token?”

“Sasha, I really want you there. Please tell me you’ll come…”

I sighed.

“Oh, alright. I’ll see you there.”

So that’s how I came to be in a steamy Japanese restaurant, elbow to elbow with a table load of lesbians.

I took a long sip of my ice water and waited for my face to cool off.

The woman to my left leaned over and said softly into my ear: “We don’t bite, you know.”

I dove back into my ice water for another gulp and choked as I swallowed. I coughed and sputtered, covering my mouth with one hand while I felt around for a napkin with the other. The woman unfolded my napkin and handed it to me, patting me on the back as I wheezed my way through the last of my coughing fit.

“Hey, there. Are you okay?”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry I made you choke.”

She look genuinely concerned.

“I’m okay now,” I said.

“I’m glad.” She left her hand in the middle of my back. “Be happy that happened with water and not with sake. Here, let me pour you some.” She reached for a large bottle of sake.

“Oh, no thank you. Really. Sake and I don’t get along well.”

“Have you ever tried chilled sake? This isn’t like the warm stuff, which tastes like gym socks to me. This is premium. This one is sort of light and melon-y. It’s called ‘The Mirror of Truth’. I kid you not.”

She poured some in my glass.

“It’s just that sake…” I couldn’t finish the sentence although she waited for me. “Never mind.”

I took a sip of the sake and felt the warmth in my throat and then the familiar hardening of my nipples. That was what I couldn’t say, that for some mysterious reason, sake makes my nipples stiff. I crossed my arms across my chest, immediately regretting the thin, blue sweater I had changed into after work.

“Cold?” she asked.

“No, I’m fine. Really.” I kept my arms crossed, waiting for my chest to relax.

“What do you think?”

“Huh?”

“Of the sake?”

“Oh, it’s good. Very good.” Uncrossing one arm, I reached for my glass and took another sip.

“I’m Elin,” she said. She turned toward me and held out her right hand to shake mine, but as I dropped my arm, she accidentally brushed her wrist along my still-protruding left nipple and I flinched.

“Whoops. I’m so sorry,” she said, never losing eye contact.

“Sasha,” I said, taking her hand.

“I remember. I helped you out from under the table.”

I only blushed a little that time.

Someone put a plate of sushi down in front of us, slices of dark pink fish gleaming on top of little mounds of rice. She reached out with the butt end of her chopsticks. “Sushi?”

“Oh, no. I can’t. I don’t eat raw fish.”

“Well that’s a darn shame,” she said, and put the piece of sushi on my plate anyway. “Have you ever?”

“Excuse me?”

“Eaten sushi?”

“No. It’s never sounded appealing to me. I was going to hold out for some tempura.”

“Just give it a try. You might like it.”

She showed me how to mix the wasabi into the soy sauce, demonstrating with her own bowl. I took a good-sized sip of the cold sake before venturing a tiny bite.

The rice was warm and little bit sweet and sticky. The fish was cold and firm. It barely tasted fishy. I hate to sound so corny, but it was like an ocean breeze.

“Oh, that’s good,” I said. “It’s really good.” I popped the last of the piece into my mouth.

As she reached for the bottle of sake to refill our glasses, I noticed a tattoo on her right forearm. It was Japanese kanji in dark green ink.

“What does that say?” I asked.

“You don’t read Japanese?” Her voice took on a teasing tone.

“I don’t.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to wait to know,” she said.

I could tell she was flirting with me, but I didn’t care. The sake was working its magic, and I was finally warming to the dinner party and starting to enjoy myself. Elin was a chivalrous dinner companion, passing me food and offering to refill my glass as we made small talk with the women around us.

There were the usual exchanges: How everybody knew each other, where we’d gone to school, what we do for a living.

“What grade do you teach?” Elin asked.

“I teach college English,” I said, “the basic stuff, and one class in poetry this semester.”

A plate of grilled mushrooms was passed to me. I offered them to Elin and she helped herself to a few before holding the plate, in turn, for me.

“These are good,” she said. “I love robata.”

I must have looked quizzical.

“Grill,” she said. “Robata is a style of Japanese grilling.”

“What did you say you do?” I asked.

“I’m a culinary student,” she said. “I’m nearly finished with my program and hoping to become a chef soon.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I can barely cook a thing.”

“And you call yourself straight,” she said, smiling.

She swished one of the shitake mushrooms into a dark dipping sauce and held it out with her chopsticks. “Here,” she said, “open up.”

I saw Teresa watching me from the end of the table and she widened her eyes in mock horror as I opened my mouth and allowed Elin to feed me. The mushroom was warm and rich and meaty, wrapped in the sweet, gingery sauce.

“Wow, ” I said. “That may be the best mushroom I’ve ever eaten”

She nodded.

“It tastes so… earthy. I guess that’s the best way I could describe it.”

Elin leaned over and said, quietly, “Umami.”

“Umami?” I said.

She nodded again. “Umami.”

I raised my eyebrows as a question.

“In Japanese cuisine, there is a fifth recognized flavor… beyond sweet, salty, sour, and bitter. It’s called umami, which means simply ‘delicious food,’ and it’s the rich, warm flavor found in things like soy sauce, and meat, and parmesan cheese… and mushrooms. It’s why chefs use meat stock to make sauces taste richer.”

“Umami,” I said in agreement.

The sake was making me feel pliable and I leaned into her a little, aware of our thighs pressing together under the table. It felt good. Really good.

“Besides,” she said, putting her arm conspiratorially over my shoulder and leaning into me, “I’ve always thought that shitake mushrooms taste like girls.”

“No kidding?” I giggled, feeling a little bolder. “You mean to say that umami is the taste of…?”

I felt her lips brush my left ear as she barely breathed the word: “Pussy”.

I met her rock-solid gaze.

“Have you spent enough time looking into ‘The Mirror of Truth’?” she asked.

“I think so.”

We paid our part of the bill and left the restaurant aware that the others were watching us go. Teresa’s mouth, although upturned at the corners, was hanging open in mock amazement.

The next morning I sat, cross-legged, on Elin’s cotton futon and accepted a steaming cup of jasmine tea.

“Now will you tell me what the tattoo on your arm says?” I asked.

“It says ‘delicious food’,” she said, and took a sip of tea. Then she smiled around her tea cup.

“Umami.”

###

I participated in my first open-mike writer’s night last night, sponsored by the Betty’s List Book Club at the awesome Duboce Park Cafe in San Francisco. I read an edited (to adhere to the 5-minute limit) version of my story “Vision Quest“. That’s me, second from the right:

If you’re not familiar with Betty’s List and you’re in the Bay Area, check it out here.

Part IV

(If you click here, you can read all four of the series entries on one page.)

In Amboy, I stopped at Roy’s for a milkshake. I was still pretty sugared up from my Mexican Coke, but I just couldn’t pass up this 1950’s icon.

The hum of the air conditioning merged with the 1950s soundtrack playing in the background.

I slid my glass around in the wet spot the condensation had made on the formica tabletop and fought the urge to blow the paper cover off my straw into the middle of the room.

A glass case behind the register displayed the house speciality: An “I got my kicks at Roy’s” t-shirt with the Route 66 logo. I’ve never been much of one for silly t-shirts, but I knew how much you’d love this one, so I bought size large, in orange, and threw it in the trunk.

By the time Sally and I rolled onto the highway, I was buzzing on a sugar high and I barely noticed Needles as we passed on through.

Listen, you know how I am. Sugar in me is like scotch in hairy old men. Enough of it and I think I’m the funniest thing on the planet and am willing to try anything once, even alone.

So I guess this is where my travelogue begins to get a little more interesting. You were wondering where this is going, right?

Well, somewhere in the Mohave desert between Needles and Kingman, I got the bright idea to take off my shirt.

It was a pretty lonely stretch of road, it was still hot and sunny, and I was in a convertible. I hadn’t pulled this stunt since college, but “what better time?” I thought to myself. First I slid my bra straps out from under my tank top and then I slipped my arms out, one at a time. I twisted the fastener around to the front, unhooked it with my right hand and hung my bra on my rear view mirror, amusing the hell out of myself.

 

Finally, I glanced around to make sure I was truly alone on the road and then I slipped my undershirt over my head. My heart was racing and I was laughing my ass off, all by myself in the car.

I have to admit, the air blowing through my hair and over my breasts felt awfully good after a hot day in the car. When I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror, laughing, happy, and topless in my Ray-bans, I decided I needed a picture to preserve this moment.

(And I’ll confess now, I was toying with the idea of sending it to you as a little reminder of what you’re missing.)

I dug around in the glove box and came up with my cell phone. I turned it on and waited for the photo viewfinder. And then, driving topless along Route 66 at 60 miles an hour, I proceeded to try and take my own picture. I heard my phone make the shutter noise, but out in the sunlight, I couldn’t tell what sort of pictures I was taking, so I tried a couple of different angles, smiling at the camera, looking serious, glasses on, glasses on top of my head, and one of just my tits, for good measure.

Admittedly, I wasn’t paying much attention to the road, so the lights and siren behind me took completely by surprise. I tossed the cell phone on the seat and scrambled around for my denim shirt as I pulled to the shoulder.

The Arizona Highway Patrol officer slowly approached the car, giving me just enough time to slip the shirt, backwards over my bare chest.

“Everything all right, ma’am?”

The voice was deep, but female. I turned to look up at the officer, squinting into the sun.

“Uh, yeah.”

(Eloquent, huh?)

“It looked like you were having a little trouble back there.”

“I’m sorry. I let myself get distracted. I should have been paying more attention to the road.”

The officer was broad-shouldered with a dark, tanned face. Her long hair was slicked back into a braid.

I thought I saw her fighting down a smile.

“You going somewhere?” she asked.

“Kingman,” I said. “Just until Friday or Saturday.”

“Can I see your license?’

I fumbled around looking for it in my wallet and then handed it to her.

“I didn’t know you were behind me,” I said.

“Did you see that “Welcome to Arizona” billboard back there?

“You were behind it? How very ‘Smokey and the Bandit’ of you.”

I admit, I was being a sugared-up smartass, but I was flirting a little too.

“Your shirt’s on backwards,” she said.

She was grinning outright now, white teeth flashing in the sun. I was pretty sure the heavy steel loops in her earlobes and her tragus piercings weren’t department regulation, and I couldn’t help but notice that she filled out her uniform awfully well.

“You know your tags expired at the end of last month?”

“Oh, man. I totally forgot to take care of that before I left home. That was just a couple of days ago.”

“I’m going to write you a fix-it ticket for the tags. It won’t cost you anything as long as you remember to take care of it,” she said. “I’ll be right back. Why don’t you get yourself dressed while I’m back at the car?”

I blushed red at that. I hadn’t fooled her for a moment.

“You saw that, huh?”

“I’ve got a scope on the radar gun. You put on quite a show.”

Her boots crunched in the gravel as she walked away. As I reached for my bra, I realized my nipples were as hard as the pebbles under her feet.

Now fully dressed, I heard her approach again.

“Sign here.”

She handed me the ticket pad. I signed, and she tore it off. As she reached out to hand me the ticket, I saw the tiny triangle tattoo on the inside of her wrist.

She pulled out another small piece of white paper, folded in half.

“I know this is unorthodox, but if any of those pictures turn out, this is my cell phone number.”

“Sure thing, officer,” I said.

“And, maybe on the flip side of your trip, I’ll see you at The Desert Rose,” she said. “Sometimes I’m around there on Saturday nights.”

“Where’s the Desert Rose?” I asked.

“Oh, if you’re supposed to be there, you’ll find it,” she said. “The best women always do.”

She pulled out around me and onto the highway, without so much as a wave, or a look back.

And, I pulled back onto Route 66 and headed toward Kingman.

###

 

 

Part III

(If you click here, you can read the series entries on one page.)

As I tooled on down the coast, I switched to the CD I’d made especially for my launch onto Route 66.

David Frizelle and Shelly West poured out of my speakers:

Oh the Santa Monica freeway

sometimes makes a country girl blue.

You’re the reason God made Oklahoma,

and I’m still missing you.

I know how you hate country music. I think that’s part of its appeal.

But by the time I actually drove into Santa Monica, Shery Crow was singing to me and I was bopping along behind the wheel:

All I wanna do is have some fun

I got a feeling I’m not the only one

All I wanna do is have some fun

I got a feeling I’m not the only one

All I wanna do is have some fun

Until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard.

I manuvered Sally into a parking place and got out to stretch my legs. The air smelled sweet and salty, like cotton candy and ocean air, or like those butter toffee pistachios you love.

I found a tea shop and took my cup of organic monkey-picked oolong outside to a cafe table. I’m not sure if the monkeys were organic, or if the tea was, but how much can it all matter after monkeys have run their little simian fingers through your tea leaves?

The scene, with a backdrop of beach, looked like a movie set. Skinny blond girls walked impossibly tiny dogs, and a guy in a Speedo, on roller skates, actually slalomed by, curving around the edge of my table. If I had stretched my arm out at the wrong moment, I could have castrated him. I sipped my tea and took it all in, enjoying the sun on my face.

When my cup was empty – my third for the day – I walked along the storefronts. I found a veggie burrito for lunch – my second of the day – and, when I was done, tossed the butt-end of it to the same gulls that had fought over my breakfast. I’m sure they followed me down from Santa Barbara, singing along with my stereo.

Finally, back in the car, I pulled out my stapled sheaf of maps, printed off the Historic 66 website, and blew a kiss to the ocean as I turned inland.

 

I skipped the CD player forward to “Mustang Sally” and we headed out of town.

All you have to do is ride around Sally.

Ride Sally, ride.

Some day I’d like to drive the full length of Route 66, but for now I’d have to settle for this express trip to Kingman.

Traveling music and traveling clothes. I’d put together a special driving outfit today – my favorite jeans, a white undershirt, and a faded denim shirt I’ve had since the late 80s. The shirt sort of transcends fashion and the chambray color, echoing the day’s sky, complemented my eyes, or so I like to think. My black Tony Lama boots always give me firm footing on the gas pedal, and a certain attitude I just can’t get from other footwear.

Somewhere between Santa Monica and Barstow, the CD player switched over to that CD you’d made me. Damn, I’d forgotten it was in there. There was a time when I’d listened to it obsessively, especially the last four or five songs, until I’d worn a smooth place on the disc. But this time, when Gladys Knight broke into “Midnight Train to Georgia,” I hit the eject button and sailed it out of the car into the dry California desert.

Barstow was everything I’d expected. I think that about says it all.

On the east edge of town, I stopped to get some gas, and was delighted to find the gas station sold Mexican Cokes, the kind made with real sugar instead of high-fructose corn sludge. If you’ve never had a Coca-Cola that was made in Mexico, grab one the next time you can. I guarantee you it’ll taste like your childhood.

It was getting seriously hot in the early afternoon sun. I ran a sunscreen stick across my cheeks and nose and took off my denim shirt and threw it on the front seat.

In honor of the Coke, Girlyman provided the soundtrack to this leg of the trip, as I cued up “Postcards from Mexico”:

When you slammed through my life

like a screen door in a hurricane wind

all I could think was how to find you again.

Remember the first time we heard them play at that funky little studio out in the middle of an apple orchard in Sebastopol?

Baby, you’re great on the highway.

Baby, you’re great on the highway.

You know how to make an escape.

(This desperation to pack up and move on and see)

(You’re cold hearted. You’re lonesome and shady.)

You leave us crying over postcards from Mexico

Baby, you’re never far enough away.

You leave us crying over postcards from Mexico

Baby, you’re never far enough away.

###

Part II

(If you click here, you can read the series entries on one page.)

The next morning was a little surreal. I awoke in Santa Barbara to the sound of gulls and what the poet Mary Oliver would call the “pale pink morning light”. It took me a moment to remember where I was, how I had gotten there, and where I was headed.

Yesterday’s drive down the coast was already fading into a haze of wind and music. I hugged my knees into my chest and thought about the day in front of me, as I stretched my back.

The little coffee maker on the counter did a fine job of heating up water for tea. And then, breathing in the jasmine-scented steam that rose off my mug, I pulled back the drapes and looked out into the morning.

I know you would probably think it silly that I spent such a chunk of change for a room I’d only be in until the 11 a.m. checkout time, but let me tell you — when I pulled open the sliding door and stepped on to the patio, and then onto the soft, night-cooled sand beyond it — I realized that my impulsive lodging decision the night before had been worth every cent.

The sun rising over the hills behind me reflected off the water. I found myself leaning against the rough trunk of an honest-to-goddess palm tree, mesmerized by the waves. I know we spent lots of time at the ocean up north, you and I. But let me tell you, the water in Santa Barbara looked so blue and soft compared to our pounding coastline, that it was hard to believe I was only seven hours from home.

I took a sip of my hot tea and sighed. It was early and I thought I was alone on the beach until I noticed a group of construction workers waving from the roof of a nearby hotel. I looked around me to see what they were so interested in, and then realized that I was wearing only a thin and shrunken Mills College t-shirt and a skin-colored thong. I had been so entranced by the perfection of the morning that I hadn’t realized I’d wandered outside barely dressed, even by beach standards. I flushed, realizing that from where they stood, staring, I probably looked completely bare-assed. So I raised my middle finger to the group, provoking laughter, and headed back into my room to the sound of their applause.

Later, appropriately dressed, I found breakfast in the form of an egg and cheese burrito, and with my second cup of tea — genmaicha this time — I wandered down the beach. As I threw the remnants of my breakfast to the gulls, watching them pile on each other, wings flapping, as they fought for the scrap, I though about how you always called them “beach rats”. Remember the time we set our picnic basket down on Baker Beach and went for a walk, only to return and discovered the gulls had raided it and were having a party at our expense? The look on your face was worth the price of the Cowgirl Creamery cheese we lost.

I was bummed to say goodbye to Santa Barbara as I pulled Mustang Sally onto the road and headed south. I made myself a promise that I’d make a point of visiting again soon. I would have liked to stay another day or two, but just 75 miles south of here, I’d make a left turn onto Route 66 and head toward Kingman.

At the first stoplight in town, I dug around in my music case, looking for something that would match the mellow vibe of this last section of coastline. I came up with Lucinda William’s new cd “West”. Somehow Lucinda has a way of meeting my moods and I knew she’d understand this trip and my need to tell you the whole story. So, I flipped to “I’m Learning How To Live,” and turned up the volume and began to sing along:

I’m learning how to live – without you – in my life.

I’m learning how to live – without you– in my life.

I’ll take the best of what you had to give.

I’ll make the most of what you left me with.

I’m learning how to live.

They say the best is still yet to come,

but the taste of you is still on my tongue.

I can’t forget and I won’t even try

to erase your image and the way you made me cry.

I’m learning how to live.

###

I was at home, practicing yoga in my living room, when there was a knock at the door.

I was stretched out in Downward Dog, concentrating on raising my pelvis and sliding my shoulder blades down my back, so I didn’t immediately jump to answer it.

There was another knock.

I dropped to my knees and stretched my back in Child’s Pose.

“Coming,” I said loudly, although it was a little muffled by the mat.

Another insistent knock.

I opened the door to find a small child, dressed like cupid, and holding a white box, tied with ribbon. He bowed seriously and held the box out to me.

“For your Valentine’s pleasure,” he said, in a practiced voice.

“Who sent you?” I asked as I took the box.

He shrugged.

“Here, let me get you something for your trouble.” I rummaged in my wallet and came up with two dollars. I held them out to him. “Who sent you?” I asked again.

“Kim,” he said, giggling, and ran off down the hall.

Inside I set the box on my coffee table. I carefully pulled the satin ribbon and found the box was packed with red rose petals. I poked my finger into them, but could feel nothing. In the kitchen I grabbed a glass mixing bowl and poured the rose petals into it. Immediately my apartment filled with the scent of roses… roses and something else… I sniffed the petals and the lid of the box. Vanilla. The scent of your perfume. (You think of every detail, don’t you?)

In the bottom of the box was a tiny, white envelope. Inside was a hand-lettered card. In gold ink, it read: “Please join me this evening at 8 p.m. at my home. I am making chocolate fondue in your honor.” The card was dated 2/14/2003, and signed “K”. There was a chocolate fingerprint next to your signature.

After the sun had set, I took a long, hot bath, taking care to scrub the rough parts of my body and condition my hair. I pulled my special occasion black silk boxers out of my dresser and put them on. Finally, I dressed in my best-fitting jeans – just a little worn in the right places – and the black tuxedo shirt I know you find especially fetching. The shirt is a little thin, and I wasn’t wearing a bra, but then we weren’t planning on going out. I added a black leather concha belt with turquoise accents and I shined my black Tony Lama boots before pulling them on over red and white heart-print socks.

Finally, I threw on my leather jacket and gathered up the flowers I’d bought for you. The paper bundle in my arms made me feel like Miss America, but only for a moment. I knew your eyes would light up at the sight of three-dozen long-stemmed apricot tulips — the exact kind you love — special ordered out of season and ridiculously expensive – the sort of flowers that would let you know I had planned thoughtfully and weeks in advance. Hey, that’s the kind of girl I am.

I felt a little flutter at your door — like a high school kid on a date. I rang the bell and fidgeted, pulling down the back of my jacket and smoothing my hair.

When you opened the door, you took my breath away — as you have done so many times, but more so.

Your hair was shining and hanging loose around your face. You were barefoot on the Oriental carpet, each toenail shining red and perfect. Your dress just knocked me out. A deep chocolate brown, it was made of that wonderful Victorian stuff that is velvet in places and see-through in others. Thin straps bared your shoulders. The bodice clung to you and the skirt swirled around your legs.

You were delighted with the tulips and kissed me gratefully, drawing me into the house.

“I thought we’d eat upstairs,” you said. And as I followed you up the wide, curving staircase I could see through your skirt in places and knew there was nothing between you and that dress.

My mouth watered for chocolate – the chocolate fondue and the chocolate of your dress.

You had filled your sitting room with candles. A fire burned in the grate. On the marble-topped tea table in front of the old-fashioned sofa there was a fondue pot, already filled with melted chocolate. A plate was heaped with strawberries, pieces of cake, orange slices, and marshmallows. Oh, you remembered how I love marshmallows.

I let my jacket slide down my arms and hung it on the back of a chair.

Your eyes wandered over me approvingly.

“Champagne?”

“That would be lovely,” I said.

You handed me the bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a clean linen towel with which to grasp it. I placed the bottle between my knees and gently turned it until the cork gave way with a gentle pop. Without spilling a drop, I presented you with the cork and wrapped the towel around the bottle to catch any drips. You held out the champagne flutes and I filled them, then placed the bottle on the table and took a stem from you.

We clinked our glasses and drank to each other, looking at each other across the rims of our glasses. I broke the gaze first, turning my head to the side slightly, suddenly uncomfortable under your scrutiny.

You took my glass and set it down, standing in front of me. You stepped closer still, our breasts almost touching though the thin velvet of your dress and the thinner cotton of my shirt. I could smell the warm vanilla scent of your skin.

For a moment there was no sound at all – not even breathing – and then my heartbeat began to drum in my ears. The room was warm. I was warm.

“Are you ready for chocolate fondue?” you asked, still not touching me.

I nodded.

You turned to the bookshelf by the window and returned with a small vase filled with paintbrushes. Some of the brushes were long and silky; some were short and bristly. There was a fan-shaped one, and one shaped like small housepainter’s brush.

“You’ll have to undress,” you said.

I stood frozen to the spot as the realization of what you wanted to do sank in.

My first impulse was to resist. After all, I don’t take orders well.

You walked around behind me, still carrying the brushes and whispered into my right ear, your breasts barely brushing my back. “You’ll have to undress,” you said again.

Then you turned and sat on the couch, leaning back against the tapestry cushions, your legs spread under the velvet skirt, one arm flung languorously across the top of your head.

“Take your time,” you said.

I’ve never stripped for anybody, so I felt a little awkward with you there, watching me disrobe.

I pulled off my boots and socks and set them aside. I saw a smile flicker on your lips as you saw the heart-patterned socks.

I unbuckled my belt and opened the fly of my jeans. Just as I was poised to pull them down, over my hips, I heard your voice.

“Go slower, please.”

And so I did, sliding the jeans slowly down my legs and stepping out of them, leaving them there on the floor. I began to unbutton my shirt with the top button, moving slowly to the next one, pausing to run my hand through my hair. I was self-consciously putting on a little show, but trying to be natural, not campy. There’s not a campy bone in my body.

As I reached the last button, I realized I was so turned on I thought I would faint. The crotch of my boxers was wet between my legs. When I slowly pulled my shirt open, the light brush of the starched fabric across my hardened nipples nearly brought me to orgasm. I let it slide from my shoulders to the floor and stood there in my boxers, looking down.

“Ummm,” I heard you say, softly, and I looked up at you. The full, draping skirt of your dress had slid farther up your thighs, and the tip of your ring finger was between your lips, where you sucked it softly.

I blushed and, continuing, reached for the waistband of my boxers.

“Leave those for me, please,” you said.

There was another of those incredibly long moments as you lay there looking at me. Despite the warmth of the room, I felt goosebumps rise along my arms, and I gave an involuntary shiver.

“You’ll need to prepare the floor,” you said. “On the chair behind you is a folded painter’s tarp. Please spread it out on the floor.”

I did as you asked.

“There’s also a folded white flannel sheet. Please spread that on top.”

Again, I did as you asked. I felt vulnerable crawling around on the floor in my boxers as you watched me from the couch, and I suspected you knew this.

“Now please move the table over to the edge of the sheet. Carefully.”

I did. The table was surprisingly heavy. I rubbed my biceps as I straightened up.

“Here,” you said, holding out your hand. In it was a velvet bag with a drawstring cord.

“Open it, please.”

Inside there was a set of four velvet cuffs that fastened with buckles, a velvet collar, and a blindfold.

I looked at you in disbelief.

“Put them on,” you said. Although your voice was soft, I noticed you didn’t say “please”.

“On myself?” I asked. “Don’t you want to put them on me later?” I laughed nervously.

I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of being restrained.

“I want to watch you put them on yourself,” you said. “Sit down in the middle of the sheet. Start with your ankles.”

And so I did.

You reminded me to make sure they were fastened firmly and had me tug on them to show you. I bent my head forward, fastening the collar behind my neck.

Finally, I sat there with the blindfold in my hands. I looked at it and swallowed. I hate blindfolds. They terrify me.

“Please don’t make me…”

“Wait,” you said, and stood at the edge of the sheet near my feet. I looked up at you. The light of the fire backlit your form and glowed softly through the dress between your thighs. You reached for the hem of the dress, and in one long motion, pulled it off and over your head. You shook your head to straighten your hair and tossed the dress aside.

I was sitting at the feet of the goddess. I stared up at you, unable to breathe.

“There,” you said. “Now put it on.”

Reluctantly, but with your image burned into me, I placed the velvet blindfold across my eyes. It was padded and felt secure, comforting even.

“Here,” you said.

I felt my champagne glass at my lips and drank thankfully.

“Now lay back.” I felt you place a velvet cushion underneath my head.

There was a pause.

“Taste,” you said.

I felt the warm smoothness of chocolate on my lips. I licked at it.

“Bite,” you said, and I bit into a marshmallow, dipped in the chocolate and becoming soft with the warmth of it. The sweetness filled my mouth

There was another moment of silence.

I jumped as I felt the touch of a brush on my nipple, the silky warmth of the chocolate, almost hot to the point of stinging.

“Too hot?” you asked.

I shook my head. “It’s okay.” My voice was barely a whisper, my mouth sticky with chocolate.

“Are you comfortable?”

I nodded, breathing shallowly through my mouth.

I heard you sorting through the paintbrushes.

“Good, because I’m going to paint every inch of you before I’m done.”

###

Part I

(if you click here, you can read the series entries on one page)

We’d always talked about taking a road trip, you and I. But it seemed that one thing after another conspired to get in the way. I had commitments, you had business trips, there were holidays, family birthdays, walls to be painted, projects to be completed, and piles of work to be done.

So when our house of tarot cards came tumbling down despite the best of predictions, I decided to take fate into my own hands and hit Route 66, all by my lonesome.

A friend on a traveling nursing assignment in Kingman, Ariz., offered the perfect excuse.

“Come’on and visit,” she said. “It’s hotter than hell here, but the accommodations are clean and free, and the drive will do you good. What you really need right now is a little fresh air between your ears.”

I wouldn’t describe myself as super-spontaneous, and usually that impulse control acts in my favor, but I could feel that I was mired in the mud, spinning my wheels.

I tried to imagine where a solo road trip would fit into Elizabeth Kubler Ross’ stages of grief.

Would it be denial to take off, pretending that the chapter of my life with you hadn’t just snapped shut on my hand?

Or was it finally a sign of acceptance – a welcoming of the uncertainties of the open road and the endless white line stretched out in front of me?

I ran through all of this in my head, and finally decided I was spending way too much of my time and energy thinking about a woman who was gone (that would be you again) and places I had never been.

I knew I could fix one of these in a broken heartbeat.

I spent some time that evening assembling some music for the trip. Every good road trip has to have a soundtrack, right?

Then I got up early the next morning, watered the plants, checked the balance in my bank account, and threw some stuff into a REI duffle bag. On the way out of town I stopped in at the local garage and had the oil changed in my car. You know that every time I take the Mustang in there, the guy at the counter offers to buy her from me. This visit was no different.

“Oh, I couldn’t do that to you,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “It just wouldn’t be fair to either of us. She’s red and flashy, but completely unable to make a commitment. She’d break your heart. I’m just one in a long line of women who have driven her. Eventually everyone gives up in frustration. I’ve had her take turns that weren’t on my route, and come to a complete stop when I least expected it. She requires constant attention. Hell, I have to come in here each time I plan to drive her more than a hundred miles. She’s the most self-absorbed woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

And as always, he smiled like the lovesick teenager he is. “Well, when she’s ready . . . I mean when you’re ready, you know where to find me,” he said, handing me my keys.

There are a lot of memories in this car. I brought Ripley home in this car when he was a puppy. I’ve moved at least three times in this car. You can pack an awful lot of stuff into a convertible when the top’s down.

And of course, there are memories of you in this car. You drove her as much as I did, and I’m sure there’s nothing in the interior I can touch that you haven’t touched too, especially in the backseat. I’m sure you remember the time we drove to the coast to watch the sunset. We were kissing long and deep like a Hollywood movie, when somehow we ended up back there. Ostensibly we were just huddled together trying to keep warm, but one thing led to another, and pretty soon my shirt was off and you had somehow lost a shoe with your foot dangling over the side. As I remember, you kicked it away at the very moment of your climax, your eyes, focused on mine in the dimming light, suddenly widening as you realize it had gone flying. You were panting and laughing at the same time.

We were still laughing about it the next day, about how you drove home with just one shoe. But it really bugged you, so you drove back out to the coast that afternoon, searching until you found it. A whole afternoon spent on a Converse sneaker. You were always a little over-concerned with your shoes.

I was hoping that this long drive with my top down would blow the scent of you right out of my backseat.

I double checked my map with its big squiggly capital “L” that I’d drawn… first a drive down the coast on Coast Highway One, then a big left turn in Santa Monica, right onto old ‘66 herself.

I pulled out onto the road, fired up the stereo and started heading south on 101.
Chris Webster’s “Candy Bars and Freedom” poured out of my speakers:

Get in the car, don’t look back.

Get in the fast lane, get on the inside track

When you’ve gone a hundred miles, have yourself a candy bar.

I never thought you’d get this far.

This for real. You won’t be back.

This is the last time, (s)he’ll hurt you like that.

When you’ve gone two hundred miles, stop for something cool.

You’re feeling more like a woman and less like a fool…

The wind blew through my hair, carrying a hint of the fog that hunkered down over the western hills. I reached for my sunglasses and tipped my face up toward the sun. There was a cold Te Java in a cooler on the floorboards, and a handful of those fruit and nut bars we both like in the glove box. I’d knew I’d be in Santa Barbara by nightfall.

It’s sweet like candy bars and freedom.

It’s so good to feel good again.

###

Part IV – Flesh Tones

If you click here, you can read the complete series on one page.

 

Iris took me by surprise when she padded up behind me entirely nude. She stood so close I could have reached out to touch her, and I did, in fact, spill wine on her in my discomfiture.

It had been years since I had worked with a model and I was expecting some modesty. I expected her to come out from behind the screen wrapped tightly in the kimono I had provided. I had pictured her sitting for me wrapped in the robe, gradually letting it slide from her shoulders as my professionalism and the wine made her more comfortable.

I had anticipated that gradual unveiling — the transition from shy girl to wanton woman that I hoped would take place in front of my easel. I was well aware she was young, but I planned to look and not touch.

After all, she had the sweet, milk-fed look of a high school cheerleader. The kind of looks that are polished with Breck shampoo and Dove soap.

So the thing that had surprised me the most was the contrast between her open, scrubbed face and the steel rings in her nipples.

I had to peel my eyes away as I handed her the wine.

I paused and asked “You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?”

She smiled that small-town grin and nodded.

“Where would you like me?” she asked, fingering the bunch of irises on the table.

“Over in the gold chair.”

As she turned to walk away, I saw the tattoo covering her back – a huge image of Kwan Yin, riding the back of a dragon through the sea. The waves spread out across her hips.

I swallowed hard and again felt something flip, this time lower than my stomach. This girl was full of surprises.

“Is that Kwan Yin?” I asked casually.

“It is.” She sounded pleased.

“It’s a coincidence,” I said, attempting to make small talk. “I just saw an interesting poem about Kwan Yin on Craigslist.”

“Was it ‘Kwan Yin Is On My Back Again?’” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” I said, busying myself arranging art supplies and adjusting my easel.

(Read the original Craigslist post here.)

“I wrote it,” she said, simply.

I stopped and looked at her.

“Really?”

Our gaze held.

“Really.”

She broke away first.

“How would you like me to sit?”

“Just make yourself comfortable,” I said, kneeling down to adjust the knobs on the easel.

“How much time do you have? Is it okay if I paint rather than sketch?”

“My evening’s free,” she said.

“You remember I’m an abstractionist, right?” I asked. “This won’t be a portrait.”

I saw her look around the studio at the finished and half-finished paintings on the walls and stacked up in piles.

“I’m sure whatever you come up with will be great,” she said. “I’m really in it for the experience.”

“Okay.”

I straightened up and turned to face her.

She sat, sort of slouched into the chair, her body draped across it. One hand balanced the glass of wine on the arm of the chair; the other rested on her thigh, which was flung across the chair’s other arm, spreading her legs wide toward the easel.

“How’s this?” she asked.

“It’ll work for me, if you can hold it.”

I was determined not to let her see how rattled I felt.

“Oh, I can hold it,” she said.

I turned on the stereo, loaded with k.d. lang’s “Drag” c.d., and set about mixing paints.

“I haven’t heard this in years.” She leaned into the chair with her eyes closed, the wineglass empty in her hand.

Looking for a color that could approximate her smooth, tawny skin, I blended titanium white and bismuth yellow with ochre and a dab of cadmium red.

I turned to the easel and began to paint, brushing color into the middle and out toward the edges. The scrape of my stiff-bristled brush on the rough canvas sounded rhythmically in the room. I reached for the enameled tray that served as my palette.

Soon I was lost in the painting. The room began to darken and I adjusted the lights.

I added warm colors to the palette. I changed to a softer brush. I scratched lines into the surface with the end of my brush. I traced them with a 6B pencil and rubbed the graphite into the exposed canvas. I painted out a section and mixed colors to approximate the dusky mustard color of the chair.

Finally, I stopped, exhausted. I put my hands on my legs and bent over, stretching out my back.

The room was quiet; the music had stopped. Embarrassed, I realized she had been sitting there for hours without a break.

Yet, still she sat, watching me.

“Are you finished?” she asked softly.

The room had cooled a little with the evening. I saw goosebumps on her arms. Her nipples, held partly erect by the rings, began to harden then. She breathed in deeply and rhythmically, waiting for my answer, which didn’t come.

I stood looking at her, as though after those hours, I was seeing her for the first time. I watched her belly rise and fall with her breathing.

Still spread in the pose, her excitement was clearly visible.

Her voice was huskier then.

“May I look at the painting?”

“Sure”

Slowly, she began to move her arms and legs. She rubbed the stiffness out of her elbows and ran her hands down her legs. She used her hands to lift her raised thigh off the arm of the chair. Standing, she interlocked her fingers and turned her palms upward, stretching the length of her spine.

Finally, she came to stand beside me.

I could feel the warmth of her body next to me as she surveyed the canvas, which was a mass of swirling flesh tones, grounded on the mustard color of the chair. The flesh tones warmed and cooled, lightened and darkened, but across the three-foot canvas, they looked like they were lit from within. A line down the canvas may have hinted at a waist, another, the curve of a breast. Down near where the chair was represented was a gentle streak of deep, dark rose.

“I like this part best,” she said, pointing to it.

“So do I,” I said, reaching for her.

The end.

Kris grabbed Meg by the arm and pulled her into the doorway.

“The meeting finished early. Let’s blow off the rest of the afternoon and have a drink.”

Meg tried to wrest her arm away. “Come on, Kris. I’ve still got stuff to do at the office.”

“Ease up, for once. Okay?” Kris steered her friend through the doorway of the trendy downtown restaurant and bar.

At four in the afternoon it was empty and quiet. A bartender was quietly arranging things at the end of the bar.

Kris guided her to a table near the front window and they sat down. Meg, facing the window, watched the street.

“Really, Kris. I’m feeling weird about this. I’ve never been here. We could go to that place across the street instead.”

Kris was getting a little pissed. “Meg! Let it go. This is a great place and it’s nice and quiet right now so we can talk. Just relax.”

Meg sighed and her shoulders dropped in resignation.

“Alright. I’ll have a drink. My head is still aching from that meeting. It’ll probably be good for me.”

“Good,” said Kris, “let’s talk. I’ve wanted to ask you all day, how’s the online dating thing going?”

Meg shook her head. “I’ve looked at some of the women online, but I haven’t posted my profile yet. I don’t think I have a decent picture without my ex in it.”

“I can take one,” Kris said. “You’ve got a digital camera, right?”

“I do, but I’m worried that with my short hair, I’ll come out looking too butch. Can you do something to make me look like the big femme that I am?”

“Well, usually you look pretty femme… Your glasses are girly and you’re usually wearing sparkly earrings. Maybe you could wear them for the picture… and a little lipstick, of course.”

“I think I lost one of my favorite red earrings, otherwise I’d wear those.

“That’s a bummer. I really liked those on you,” Kris said. “Hey, wait, weren’t those a gift from….?”

Meg cut her off. “I know. I know. I’m sure it’s bad love karma to wear earrings from an ex-girlfriend in an online dating photo, but I really like them and think they look good with my glasses. I’ve worn them a long time and they’re like part of me.”

“Have you looked for the earring?”

“Sort of.”

Kris sensed her friend’s hesitation. “What do you mean ‘sort of’? Where do you think you lost it?”

Meg blushed and looked away.

“Whoa! What was that?” Kris asked.

Meg continued to look pointedly out the window. “It’s starting to cloud up out there.”

“Meh-eg?” Kris drew her name out threateningly. “Do you have something to share?”

“Oh, hell,” Meg said. “It was just one of those things that happens, Kris. Don’t give me a bad time.”

“I thought you were heartbroken.”

“Well, I am heartbroken, but obviously not completely crippled.”

“Share, share!” Kris said.

Meg started to laugh. “I may need a drink for this story.”

Kris signaled the bartender.

“Okay,” Meg said. “Just don’t make me go into details.”

“I met this girl and we spent a night together. It was only supposed to be a one-night thing.”

Kris cleared her throat.

“No. It wasn’t like that. We were sober and safe and all that good stuff. It was very consensual.”

“Do I know her?” Kris asked.

“No.”

“So we don’t work with her?”

“God, no.”

“Good,” Kris said. “So where’s your earring?”

Meg blushed again.

“Kris I’m going to tell you something, but you have to promise not to say anything to anyone we know…” Her voice trailed off.

“I said, share,” said Kris. “Your stories are always safe with me.”

“I know,” Meg said. “Remember when I told you about the nipple thing?”

“You mean how you can get off that way?”

“Shhh!” Meg said, looking around.

Kris continued. “I was in my gynecologist’s waiting room last week and read an article in Cosmopolitan that said that only one percent of women can orgasm from nipple stimulation? Did you know that? That you’re among the one percent?”

“I didn’t know that,” Meg said. “But I’m more worried about why your gynecologist would have Cosmo in her waiting room. That just seems wrong.”

“It does, doesn’t it? But don’t let it distract you, go on with your story.”

“Alright. So I ended up entangled with this woman, and she was touching me here…” Meg gestured to her breasts. “Which as I’ve told you, I really, really like. When suddenly she tilted my head and put her tongue in my ear.”

“In your ear? Like this?” Kris flicked the tip of her tongue out.

“No. Not like that at all… it was like…” Meg grew even redder. “Like she was, you know, down there.” Meg gave her friend a meaningful look.

Kris laughed.

“No, really,” Meg said. “She was sort of relentless. She swirled her tongue around and kept plunging it in and out… all while keeping up this rhythm on my nipples. It was wild. It did this sensory thing and sort of blocked all the outside sound. I could hear my own heart beating and my breathing…. Every noise I made was amplified.”

“As I remember from having my tent near yours during last year’s camping trip, you can make some noise,” Kris said.

“Shut up,” Meg said.

“Was it good?”

“Amazing.”

“She ear-fucked you?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

“Wow. And, your earring. You don’t supposed she swallowed…”

Meg shrugged.

Just then, Meg became aware of someone standing beside her chair. She turned to see a heavy black leather belt and shiny silver buckle atop a creased pair of black trousers right next to her face.

A deep, but decidedly feminine voice said, “Ladies, we’re actually closed right now. We don’t begin dinner service until 5:30.”

Meg looked up at the tall butch woman, her dark hair cropped close, a starched white shirt tucked neatly into her pants.

“Oh my god. I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I mean, we’re sorry. We’ll go.” Meg started to stand.

The woman put her hand on her shoulder, rather heavily, and sat her back down.

“Stay. I’m in charge of the house tonight, and it’s fine with me if you stay for a drink. Just know that the kitchen is closed.”

Kris took in her friend’s obvious discomfort and looked up at the tall, butch woman with her eyes twinkling.

“I’ll think some drinks will be fine.”

Kris ordered a glass of Chardonnay, and Meg, uncharacteristically ordered a vodka martini, straight up.

There was a little silence after the manager left.

“She’s cute,” Kris said.

“Yep.”

“Hot even.”

“Yep.”

“I could say ‘tasty’”.

“You could,” Meg said, “but she’s awfully damn young… maybe if she aged 10 or 15 years.”

“Maybe,” Kris said.

They sat in silence for a while.

“Anything else to report?” Kris said.

“That was about it.”

Their drinks appeared on a tray.

“Chardonnay for you,” the manager said, setting Kris’ drink down in front of her. “And a martini for the pretty lady. Are you sure you’re ready for this?” As she reached out with the tall, stemmed glass, Meg noticed her heavy leather wristband, and blushed for at least the third time that afternoon.

“I’ll be fine.”

“This round is on me,” the woman said as she walked away.

Kris upped her eyebrows at her friend.

They raised their glasses in a toast.

“Here’s to meetings that run on time,” Meg said.

“Here’s to your lost earring,” Kris said.

“I like to think it was lost as part of a transition,” Meg said, clinking her glass with her friend’s.

They took a sip.

“She’s flirting with you, you know,” Kris said.

“I doubt it.”

Meg played with the olive in her drink.

“She’s buying our drinks”

“I know.”

“It could be worse,” Kris teased her friend.

“Kris, she’s so young. Be serious.”

“Young but really damn hot.”

Meg smiled in agreement.

They sat in silence, sipping their drinks.

Talk turned to work and co-workers. It began to dim outside.

Finally the women stood to go.

“I’ll leave a healthy tip” Kris said. “It was nice of her to buy our drinks.”

They turned to leave. As they were headed out the door, the manager appeared.

“May I have a word with you?” she signaled to Meg.

“I’ll wait outside,” said Kris, with a smirk.

Kris watched the woman lean close to Meg, whisper something in her ear, and press something into her hand.

Meg joined her friend on the sidewalk.

“Holy shit. Did she just give you her number?” Kris asked.

“No,” said Meg.

She opened her hand and in the last of the afternoon light, something sparkled red.

“My earring.”

###