We talk about me, of course. Everyone seems to have forgotten all about Maeve’s upcoming nuptials. It’s all about me now. They’re all living vicariously through me. When I show them the photo of the banana, they all crack up.
“So this guy is not only hot, he’s funny too,” Corrie says. “Lethal combination, sweetie.”
“She’ll never want to come back,” Kayla adds.
“I’ll miss the kids,” I point out. I don’t mention John. “One week should be plenty.”
A wide grin stretches across Corrie’s face. She sets down her fork, next to her half-eaten quiche, and digs into her oversized purse. “I know this isn’t an official meeting,” she says. “But I’ve cooked up a little something for Gabs, a poem.”
Kayla laughs. “I didn’t realize you were a poet, Corrie.”
She smirks. “I’m not.” She really isn’t. Corrie’s journal entries could best be described as rants. She’s always going on about something.
She clears her throat, and starts.
I have a friend,
Who is heading off to Copenhagen.
Flying off and facing danger,
To meet a handsome stranger.
Seriously?! We all giggle like school girls.
She’ll walk the cobblestone streets.
Do a little shopping.
And have lots of fun,
Between the sheets.
Kayla cracks up, and Maeve smirks. I’m riveted.
She’ll wear a cozy coat.
And ride on the boats.
She’ll cuddle close and tight,
And kiss him under the moonlight.
I’m so jealous.
Seriously, I’m green with envy.
I’ll be here.
And she’ll be there,
Getting some booty.
Corrie finishes with a bow.
“Wow, I think that was the worst poem I’ve ever heard,” Kayla struggles to say between laughs. “You’re too funny, Corrie.”
“Booty?... really?!” I chime in.
