I open my mouth to do just that, only to find the effects of Cloud Dive are waning. So I take two deep gulps of my drink, lift my chin, and lock my eyes with his. “Your poetry is pretentious.”
He faces the table fully and plants his hands on its surface. Even with him leaning down across from me, he still stands taller. “How so?”
“It’s so convoluted. Do you even understand the words that leave your lips?”
“Aw, little Ed,” he says, his mouth pulling into a mock pout. “Have my words gone over your head?”
I roll my eyes. “On the contrary, your words are beneath me.”
“Think you’d make a better poet? You must be a veritable wordsmith, writing about the duke’s massive throbbing member and the governess’ mewling whines.”
He knows about the duke’s throbbing member? Does that mean he’s read my books? I’m almost of a mind to ask when my rational side reminds me he’s just making assumptions at my expense.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Icando better.”
He mimics my posture, standing at his full height. “I dare you to try.”
“I’ll do more than try.” My confidence flares, dimmed only by the fact that I have to crane my neck to hold his gaze. Well, I have a solution for that. Tugging the back of my chair, I slide it away from the table and stand upon the seat. Now I’m slightly taller than him.
My attention sweeps over the crowd, full of furrowed brows or half smiles of confused amusement.
Overhead, Daphne stretches in the rafters and peeks down at the commotion. “Oh, I’ve got to see this,” she mutters.
My confidence swells once more. I haven’t got a plan for what I’m going to say, but I’m the cleverest woman in the world right now. What do I have to fear?
I use my most pretentious voice as I begin, my pace admittedly slow and clunky while I string words together. But as each sentence falls from my mouth, the next forms.
“There once was a man named Will,
He thought he gave women a thrill.
What he truly gave,
Was an itch ’tween the legs,
The kind only ointment can kill.”
I erupt with laughter, which is echoed by those around me.
“Ah, you’re making fun of my genital hygiene,” William says, tone flat. “Such mature humor coming from you.”
I’m busy bowing for my rapt audience when Will’s voice carries over the clamor. He slowly rounds the table toward me as he speaks.
“Ed, my dear,
Little Weenie, I fear,
My patience for you has passed.
For who could endure,
Another encore,
Of such a persistent pain in the ass.”
He stops directly before me as he states the last line, our faces mere inches apart. Another round of chuckles spreads through our audience. My cheeks flush, but I refuse to show an ounce of embarrassment.
“Honestly, that was the best I’ve heard from you yet,” I say. “That one at least made sense.”
