“I wish you’d stop calling every woman who talks to me a clucker. Not all of them are gold diggers or sex addicts.”
“Then why don’t you talk to any of them?”
“I’m here with you.”
“Yeah, but I’m not going home with you and getting in your bed tonight.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat at the image those words conjure up. I need my dick to settle the fuck down.
Mia is not someone for us to get excited over, dude.
“I’m not hurting for company if that’s what you’re worried about,” I tell her.
“Oh.”
“I mean, I don’t tell you about every woman that I sleep with, Mia. That would just be weird.”
“Why would it be weird?”
“They’re just casual relationships. When something serious happens, you’ll be the first to know.”
Mia takes a sip of her vodka and cranberry, then completely pivots the conversation around back to her.
“So what should I wear for the first interview?”
“I told you it’s a phone interview.”
She pauses for a moment.
“Did you tell the HR lady about my knee?”
“Her name’s Miranda.”
“Right, did you tellMirandaabout my knee?”
“No, did you want me to?”
“Um, I think I will need to mention it. There’s no point in them wasting their time if they aren’t interested in someone like me.”
“As long as you can do the job, it shouldn’t matter. It’s against the law to not hire you based on your disability.”
Shit, I didn’t mean to say that. She hates it when I use that word.
“I’m not disabled.”
Now she’s using an awful British accent.
God help me.
“I don’t know the politically correct way to say it, Mia.”
“It’s not about beingbloodypolitically correct, it’s about being accurate. I’m not always going to have a limp, so I’m not disabled.”
“I know.”
“This is a temporary situation.”
Again with the accent. If someone from the United Kingdom is in this bar, they are going to be truly offended.
