Simon eyes me.
My brothers eye me.
The limo glides to a stop behind the firetruck.
I could go home with my brothers.
Call it a night.
As far as my original intentions go, this has been a success.
But I hear Daphne whisperingrocking chair test.
And it makes me smile. “No, you go home. I owe Simon dinner. The entire menu was cheese.”
“Including the salads,” Simon announces. “They were cheese salads. I saw them myself. Cheese salads with cheese dressings. Why on earth has this place been named after a fruit when all they serve is gastrointestinal distress?”
Oh my god.
I like him.
I do.
I don’t care if the smile thing is all an act.
He’s hilarious and he’s kind and I’m almost positive he’s drunk.
The man needs food.
Who am I to deny him that?
12
WHEN A MAN LOVES A CORN DOG
Simon
The burger busis delightful when I’m drunk at sunset.
The yellow paint is alive as if my eyes are kaleidoscopes, making the colors swirly and bright. Evening insects are chirping and humming and singing as the sun sets over the trees at the edge of the apartment building’s parking lot. The pictures of Bea’s family are moving.
Not the framed photographs themselves, but rather the people in them.
I can smell the grilling burgers and see her father flipping them and watch as her mother sets more places at their picnic table, and that’s merelyonemoving photo.
“Eat,” Bea’s mother says.
Except that’s actually Bea, setting a basket of a corn dog and chips before me.
Yes,chips.I refuse to call themfries, no matter how long I have lived primarily in the States.
You cannot make me.
So there.
She balances in a chair across the table from me, still in that sparkly red dress I bought for her. One would think alcohol would render my cock useless, but it’s quite happy right now.
She made me corn dogs and chips while wearing that dress.
