Page 75 of Man Flu

“What? You’re the one who texted me about the flat tire. What was I supposed to assume?”

I decide not to say another word until we’re out the main doors, walking through a heavy, wet snow that has accumulated a half inch since I arrived at work this morning. “He started to … you know, but then I remembered I hadn’t gotten waxed, so I changed things up.”

“Oh, so you did bang him?” I love how she sounds relieved to think that was the case.

“Why are you so invested in me getting nailed by Logan?”

Her car lights flash in front of us as she unlocks the door. Failing to offer a reply to my question, she scurries through the snow in her heels, while trying to skip between the snowflakes so her hair doesn’t get wet. I make my way around her little red sports car and slip inside. I know how she feels about my mom-van, but it’s probably a hell of a lot safer in snow and ice. Thankfully, this place is just two blocks away.

“It’s not that I’m invested in you and Batman putting the p in the v, but let’s be honest with ourselves. It’s been well over a year since you’ve had your butter churned, and Logan looks like David Beckham with salt and pepper hair. He’s hot, Hannah. These opportunities don’t just come around all the time after you’re thirty. You know that.”

If I haven’t already gotten in trouble for molesting the temp, I wonder if I would get in trouble for slapping my assistant. “Thanks for your honesty …, and how the hell would you know what ‘opportunities’ women over thirty get?” I snap back.

“Whoa, I’m just assuming. Geez …” she rebuts. Even though she doesn’t know how hard it really is to find a single, hot man in his thirties, it is, and it’s nice to have someone like Logan interested in me. I’m still not sure why he is, but I guess a lack of self-confidence can cause beer-goggles, or a willingness to settle for a downgrade.

“Plus, why do you think I’m about to go through the pain of having every hair torn off my lady bits? Just for fun? No.”

“Oh, so you have decided to go with the Hollywood glow?”

“What does that even mean?”

“Hair or bare, duh,” she says, playfully.

“Like, completely bare?” I question.

“Don’t you watch porn?”

I laugh because I think she’s kidding, but I’m quick to see she is not. “No, Brielle, I have a five-year-old, which doesn’t leave me a lot of time to watch porn.”

“So, you don’t … you know, make yourself happy?”

“This conversation is so not appropriate to be having with my assistant.”

“Which means you don’t,” she says, dryly, while pulling into the spa’s parking lot.

“Brielle, I make myself happy.”

“With a vibe, your hand, shower hose, or another kind of household object?”

“Please stop.” Another household object? I’d have to throw it away after. I’d rather not think about people using household products. You just never know what you’re touching in someone else’s house, I guess. I’m going to be thinking twice before I touch anyone else’s salt and pepper shakers from now on, though.

“Ah, you’re a handy girl. There’s nothing wrong with that. You do vibe though, right?”

I groan because I’m not answering these questions. “Do you order yours from Amazon because I’ve wondered where they came from and who has touched them before me, but I suppose I’d wonder that no matter where I buy it. I always give it a good rinse first. You do that too, right?”

“Stop.”

I continue pushing away the subject as she pulls into a parking spot. “Does yours have a name?”

“Please don’t go there,” I tell her. If she can’t hear the pleading in my voice, she’s either deaf or doesn’t care.

“Mine is Eggerman,” she says with a smile, like she’s in love with the thing.

“What the hell? Why Eggerman?”

“Well, it’s kind of in the shape of an egg, and I like eggplants, and men, so, it just fits, you know?”

“That’s insane, Brielle.”