Mr. Nine: All right then, lady. You've had your time to think. What's the verdict?
Magnolia: No verdict yet.
Mr. Nine: Hung jury?
Magnolia: Oh my god STOP.
Magnolia: You're not helping your case.
Magnolia: You know, I'm not sure I believe your case. Anyone who talks this much about his dick is (cough, cough) compensating for something.
Wasit wrong that I wanted to fact-check his cock claims? No. It couldn't be. He kept putting it out there, and there was nothing wrong with gathering more information before making decisions.
Maybe it wasn't entirely right but I wasn't ready to call it wrong.
Although I didn't actually want a dick pic. Those things were worse than opening the camera app and finding it in selfie mode. Even the most beautiful people in the world looked like triple-chinned potatoes at that angle.
The truth about dick pics was that they served the dick and not the recipient. The guy was proud of his goods—and why shouldn't he be? It did all sorts of magical things and that finicky, fragile length of skin blessed him with an awful lot of power in the world as we knew it. Of course, he'd want to show it off.
"Solidly second trimester with a large gyro bowl."
I slipped my phone into my back pocket and turned my attention to Andy Asani. She was an architect at one of the top boutique firms in the area and we often found ourselves working on the same properties. After I recovered from some self-inflicted weirdness with one of her partners once upon a time, we started meeting up for lunch every few weeks. It'd been three years now and we kept finding new reasons to eat together.
The best thing about Andy was that she was unflinchingly honest. She'd tell you if the jeans weren't right for your ass, if the lipstick was a crime against your skin, if you were making drama where none was necessary, if you were dying on the wrong hill. She was direct and sometimes that was tough, but it was the good kind of tough.
She was staring at her profile in a full-length mirror, running her hand over her perfectly flat belly. "Would you stop it? You're the size of a popsicle stick," I snapped, my tone loaded with faux exasperation. "Really, Andrea. You're a string bean."
Her eyes crinkled as she laughed. "A string bean?"
"Yes." I shoved a section of the hangers to the side on the rack in front of me. "A really fucking skinny string bean with no ass. You could be actually pregnant and eat a large gyro bowl, and still look like Audrey Hepburn with big, kinky hair. You're going to be slender and glowing and beautiful when you're pregnant. Like Kate Middleton or Amal Clooney. Please. I eat a bag of peanuts and I look like I'm full term with twins."
"No, you don't," she said, laughing. "And my name isn't Andrea."
I pulled a dress off the rack and held it out to her. "When I'm giving you a talking-to, you're Andrea. Be careful or I'll invent a middle name for you while I'm at it." I wagged the dress. "Go try this on."
She shook her head, sending her long, dark curls swaying over her shoulders. "I can't squeeze myself into that right now. Why did we eat lunch before dress shopping?"
"We think with our stomachs." I tipped my chin toward the other side of the shop. "Let's look at flowy sundresses."
"Perfect." She plucked the dress from my hands and returned it to the rack. "Flowy is good. That's going to be my summer style this year. Loose and flowy."
"Says the new wifey with baby fever," I said under my breath. After a years-long engagement, Andy finally walked down the aisle last month.
She shot me a pointed glare. "We're not talking about that right now. I am not interested in getting pregnant for at least two or three years. Maybe longer."
She made it too easy to poke at her on this topic. Even when I knew she was dead serious about waiting. Even when I shared her sentiments about wanting a baby but also waiting a couple years to meet that baby. Then again, Andy and I were in different boats when it came to starting families.
For starters, I had to meet a man I tolerated for more than a single evening.
"Baby fever," I repeated, smirking.
"So, Magnolia, are you seeing anyone special? Let's talk aboutyou."
My back pocket vibrated. I glanced to the side before responding. "You don't want to know."
She handed me a pink and green sundress. "You called me a skinny string bean. If you're going to call out my ass or lack thereof, you can entertain me with your adventures in dating."
"Adventures." I snorted, pushed a black dress toward her. She didn't believe in wearing color. "That's an interesting way to look at it."
