“I’ll have a Pappy.”
“Seriously?” My voice rises a few octaves in disbelief. “The watch, the hotel, and the bourbon? You have the most expensive tastes for someone who gives art shit for being fancy, Old MacDonald. I’m going to start calling you Old MacHypocrite. Or Hypocrite MacDonald.”
“Us farm folk can appreciate nice things. When they’repractical.” He looks indignant for a second, then gives me a considering look. “Says the woman who knows her way around whiskey.”
I shrug. “Turns out our clientsreallylike whiskey tastings. After the sixteenth one, the drink grew on me, against my will. Now, back to your very expensive taste for someone who’s supposed to be practical and utilitarian. Because whiskey is not practical.”
“I deserve some rewards for enduring the big bad city.” He mumbles the defense.
“The city is not that bad.”
“No? I saw a man grooming himself on the subway.”
Well, that is gross. But still—“Mind your own business. As long as he wasn’t making a mess, let him live his best life.”
“And there’s always trash on the streets.”
The bartender delivers the drinks and makes a quick getaway to avoid the increasingly passionate argument brewing in front of him.
“It’s trash day. What do you want us to do? Teleport it into the dump?”
“Why is everyone always rushing?”
“Because they have things to do.” With each point, we move closer and closer to each other, two boxers warily dancing toward each other in the gilded ring of the Palm Court.
“But you miss the sense of community. That’s the best part of home—my family is always there when I need them. And so is an extended network of honorary aunts and uncles to look out for me.” If I needed reinforcement that he isn’t leaving his home, he’s giving it to me every time he defends it.
“There’s community here. And when they annoy you, it’s very easy to find new community. Because of all the people here.” We get closer so I can feel his warm breath on my lips with each complaint.
“There’s no open space.”
“But why have open space when you can have buildings with fun things to do in them?”
“No one is nice is the city.”
“No. No one ispolitein the city. They’re plenty nice. Last time I was coming home from a big trip, I had a lot of luggage and had to go up some stairs at my subway stop, and one guy wordlessly picked them up and helped me, and then he was gone before I could even say thank you, so he also saved me a conversation with a stranger. He double helped me.”
“I don’t like to tell a lady she’s wrong, but you are incorrect.” The accent’s getting deeper again. So far, we have it getting deeper for nerves, frustration, and for effect.
What about arousal?
Because I might be feeling some of that if the warming in my body can be trusted. It could just be anger on behalf of my hometown, but I doubt I’d get that lucky.
“Well, I will tell ahumanthey’re wrong, if they are indeed wrong. And you’re wrong.” Just in case he didn’t catch where I was going with that.
Laughing, Beau throws his hands up in the air and leans back in his chair. I kind of miss him in my space. “If you came to Monetta, I could show you the charms of a small town.”
Whoa there, Old MacDonald. None of that will ever happen. Because I don’t see hometowns or meet family. But I’m not telling him that; he’d just ask questions like “Why?” that I don’t want to answer. “Then you’ll just be wrong in another state.”
“You don’t give an inch. What if I say the city has its advantages? Then can you concede that a small town could have its charms?”
I look at him, digging deep to see if I can concede. I really do make a good effort. I even take a sip of some very smooth liquid courage. And do some yoga breathing.
It doesn’t help. “No. I can’t do it. Sorry.”
Beau, being a smart Old MacDonald, lets it go and changes the subject. “How about them Carolina Predators?”
Oh great, sports. Can we go back to the city vs. country argument?
