I swear the cat rolled her eyes at me. We both knew I wasn’t going to restrict her food intake after the way she’d come to me. I found her as a ragged bag of skin and bones in the woods behind my house when she was only about six months old. She’d been frightened and starving, and I’d had to hand-feed her for the first week before she’d come out of her shell enough to explore the dish I’d set up for her. Sure, she was maybe a little on the, um, dense side these days, but I’d much rather have a chubby cat who knew she was loved than a starving one who lived in a tree.
Jamison Duschene:Millennials ftw. Wait, exactly how old are you, it just occurred to me that I don’t know the answer to that so I don’t know when you were born.
Me:I’m thirty-five, I was born in 1990.
Jamison Duschene:Oh you’re a 90s baby!
Me:Wait, are you not?
Me:Shit that was probably offensive to say, wasn’t it. Let’s pretend I said nothing.
Jamison Duschene:Lol no offense taken…much. I was born in ninety-three, I’m turning thirty-two in a few months. And I have the gray hairs to prove it.
Me:You do not have gray hair! I would have noticed.
Jamison Duschene:I totally do. Right at my temples, I have the beginnings of gray streaks. Presumably you were too busy looking at more interesting parts of me to notice my hair.
As if on command, my mind’s eye tossed up an image of Jamison’s cock, smooth and pink and luscious. I hadn’t gotten my mouth on it that night, and I regretted that deeply. I usually loved giving head, especially to a responsive partner, and judging by his reactions to my prepping him, he was a responsive one indeed. Idly, I wondered what he would taste like. Probably on the sweeter side, I decided. Too bad that ship had sailed; there was no way he’d want to sleep with me again after my colossal fuck-up that first time.
Wait, it had been my turn to text, hadn’t it? Shit. I turned my thoughts forcibly away from Jamison’s dick and back to my phone. Was he flirting with me? Should I flirt back? Probablynoon both counts. I went for a neutral response.
Me:If we ever see each other again, I’m going to examine your head first thing.
Jamison Duschene:You sure you haven’t met my sister? She says I need to get my head examined pretty regularly.
Me:Omg I didn’t mean…lol. Then again you’re still talking to me, so maybe youdoneed your head examined in that way too.
Jamison Duschene:What’s that supposed to mean? You’re a good conversationalist!
Me:Nobody’s ever accused me of that before. Usually I get ‘Gee, Henry, you need to spend less time with your wood and more time with people.’ Turns out the wood doesn’t talk back and my skills are thus rusty.
Jamison Duschene:If the wood starts talking back, you need to find help. And you’re doing just fine at human conversation, tyvm. Who told you otherwise?
Me:Mostly my mom. She’s less than impressed with my social life and social skills.
Jamison Duschene:Rude. I mean, I’d say something stronger but I don’t want to badmouth your mom, but still, rude. You’re fine.
Me:Texting is a lot easier than face-to-face or phone calls. It gives me time to think through what I’m saying.
Jamison Duschene:I think that’s true for almost everyone, at least of our generation. Old people maybe find phone calls easier, but I can’t remember the last time I talked to someone under, say, forty-five who preferred calls. Though the more outgoing among us do tend to prefer face-to-face. I can go either way (snerk), but I think I’m more of a social person than you going by what you’ve said so far.
Me:Do you go out on a regular or semi-regular basis? Can you carry on a conversation with a stranger? If your answer to either of those isyes, you’re way ahead of me.
Jamison Duschene:Teddy bear, you gotta stop being down on yourself.
Me:Oh my god please tell me my name isn’t ‘Teddy bear’ now somehow.
Jamison Duschene:…
Jamison Duschene:…
Jamison Duschene:…
Me:I hate you.
Stretching out my leg, I nudged the edge of the table I’d been working on and studied it critically. Was that beveling right? Itlooked like I could stand to sand down the edges of the joint just a tad more to smooth it out.
Curie, jostled by my movement, let out a peevish meow and jumped off my lap, stalking off to yet another pillow.
