I can practically hear her impatient sigh from here.
Lindsay: To get to the other side?
Yes, because your coworker’s lifeless body is twisted up on that side of the road, blood pooling beneath him, clearly a lost cause. But his eyes…well, those are intact, and the chicken notices they are currently unpecked. And the chicken simply can’t resist.
Lindsay responds with a GIF of a women spitting out her coffee with laughter.
Lindsay: Who knew the chicken had such sadistic urges?
Oh I did. The original version of that joke is much darker than most people think it is.
Lindsay: What do you mean?
“To get to the other side.” You could take that literally and assume the chicken is going for a nice midday stroll, waddle, whatever, but I’m thinking that poor chicken wanted to die.
Lindsay: JFC that’s dark.
The life of a chicken often is.
Lindsay: There’s no way the joke we all learned as children is about a suicidal chicken. There’s just crazy.
Is it? Weren’t we all kids when Disney twisted the story of Pocahontas into a romance?
Lindsay: Fuck. You’ve got me there.
My fat thumbs keep pressing the wrong letters in my reply, and I get fed up with it quickly.
Can I call you?
Lindsay: What are we, married? Do you need to discuss bills and childcare and groceries with me for some reason?
What in the hell? Lindsay is my age. How can she be this averse to phone calls?
Isn’t your arthritis making it hard to type?
Lindsay: RUDE. I’m in my early forties, which is basically late thirties, which means I still get carded when I buy booze.
I won’t deny she’s a smokeshow, but I ain’t buying this.
Liar.
What are you afraid of? I’m just a Brutish Bonehead, remember?
The three dots taunt me for several minutes, but then I’m rewarded with not only a call but a FaceTime request.
“Evenin’, beautiful,” I say as I answer. She appears to be leaning against a modern, cushioned headboard and wearing a white V-neck shirt. The screen cuts off just beneath her collarbone, and I wonder if she’s braless. If her nipples are peaked and poking through the thin fabric. Based on the lack of makeup and gold patches beneath her eyes, I’d guess there’s nothing separating her shirt from her skin.
My mouth waters at the image in my head.
“Happy now?” she asks with playful exasperation.
“Very.” I look at the clock on my nightstand. “Why are you up so late? Isn’t it a school night?”
She nods. “I had to finish the deck I’m working on for our upcoming board meeting. It’s still not done, but my eyes have stopped working for the night.”
I know she’s an important marketing person for a restaurant group, but beyond that, I’m clueless as to how she spends her time. “On a day when your coworkers aren’t acting like fools, do you enjoy what you do?”
Her lips purse as she looks off into the middle distance. “Yeah, I mean, I’m good at my job, so that makes it easy to like.”
