Liquored Lips

"So tell me about the date you went on" she says cautiously. She frames each word with her teeth and tongue as best she can before her liquored lips lay waste to her question.

"Oh, it was kinda crappy" I neutrally reply, affecting an air of caustic boredom.

"But you..."

"Yes?" I ask, eyebrow arched, a little too high. She pauses, looks at me, blinks. Flattening her hands on the red tablecloth, she pretends to look at her nails while regaining her balance.

"But you said on the phone you were kissing this person for 45 minutes while walking hum-this person home." She blinks again, again dramatically, to focus her energies on her next line. I think I'll cut her off right about....NOW.

"Maggie, now now, it's not nice to eavesdrop on phone conversations."

Ah yes-the evidently semi-private phone conversation I had at work. Liz called to dig dish about my date the night before. How enchanting it was. I baited Liz by leaving a voice mail on her cell phone at four in the morning, when I got home. I knew she wouldn't answer; her phone would be in her purse, on the oak end table next to the front door. My message stated he kissed just like me-one of the worlds highest compliments, of course.

Maggie, equipped with bottle derived determination, asks "Well, why was it crappy? What was bad about it?"

I partial smile out of the left corner of my mouth. No smile is strong enough to fully wipe away the "Wow—my life really is a colossal cosmic joke..."

"It just didn't work out."

No, it didn't work out and I'm convinced relationships never will. That date is now the most recent addition to my Talking Pillows Collection. Please make no rush to get your signed copies. I'm not going to delve into the date-not tonight, not now, not at the company Christmas party. At least, not until the bosses are around. Besides, there's nothing I can say to her to broaden her understanding of, well, what whores men are. I'm going to rely on experience and assume she doesn't want to know the way detect how loose someone is simply on a visual basis.

"Oh" said Maggie, contemplating her next move. I found myself as anxious as she. "Well, was this person a....bitch...or...was he an asshole?"

Well, now we are using pronouns. Quite an accomplishment. The equivalent of checkmate in the game of Guess My Orientation! Now I know where this is going. Or do I. Nah; she's a married woman. Why does she care where the X is that marks my spot? This is fun.

"Well, the person was kind of a bitchy asshole." Float like a butterfly...wait for her husband, here he comes, three liquid interventions in hand, one for him, one for her, and one from Rehab, just for me.

As Mike arranges drinks, Maggie tells me, "It must be so hard to find intelligent people to date. I mean, you're so awesome, and so sweet....."

And suddenly she's using the catch phrases uttered by ex-boyfriends, by pseudo boyfriends, by quasi semi hemi demi boyfriends, in stories she doesn't know I write.

"Hello, Mike. Maggie and I were just talking. She's trying to figure out if I'm gay or not."

"Oh. Well, that's nice."

"Isn't she, though?" and I pick up my drink and walk away.