criminals and incredible crimes. Sam loves those things. Me, not so much, although I do occasionally watch with Sam for a while because I like to see if I can come up with loopholes that, if I were the lawyer, I’d use to get the criminals off. Not that I want more criminals on the streets or anything, but I like solving puzzles and working on finding a loophole is like getting one big brain massage.
Sam doesn’t even visually acknowledge my presence as I enter my own home, toss my keys on the table by the door.
“Can you believe the tats on that guy?” Sam says, eyes glued to the criminal on the screen. Then, Sam burps.
“The tits?” I say. “Well, he does look like he’s spent too much time in the prison gym.”
“Not the tits .” Sam is disgusted, not an uncommon occurrence. “The tats . The tats all over his body.”
“No, I can’t,” I say, taking a seat on the ottoman. “He’s like one big tat, which, when you think about it, is probably preferable to being one big tit. Not that there’s anything wrong with tits.” I squint at the TV. “Does he even have any eyes?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you and Renee have another fight?”
“What do you think?”
“It’s Sunday night, you’re here instead of next door. I’m thinking chances are good.”
Every time Sam and Renee fight, Sam comes over here, using the spare key if I’m not home. Sam and Renee have been together for about a year, and I doubt they’ll last another, but finding Sam on my couch has been going on a lot longer than that. Sam just likes my place better than the one next door, says the paint job here is better for promoting good feelings. No duh. Paint – it never lets you down. Paint – it’s what I do.
Sam’s been using that key for a good six years now, ever since I moved into this complex; Aunt Alfresca scoffed when I bought the condo, said a house would be a better investment, but it turned out that for once I was right, what with condos holding their value a lot better than houses in the current economic climate. When I moved in Sam’d already been here a while, we met the first day, instantly bonded, Sam helped me and Billy and Drew unload all my stuff from the U-Haul, we exchanged keys in case of emergency, and have been BFFs ever since. I realize the BFF designation is somewhat girly, but Sam says that’s what we are and I’ve learned not to argue with Sam.
I kick off my white patent-leather shoes. Geez, my dogs are tired.
The shoes make thunking sounds as they hit the floor and Sam tears her gaze away from the TV long enough to see where the thunks came from.
“What the hell are those things?” she says. Then, for the first time, she looks at me. “Oh my god, what are you wearing?”
I look back at her. Sam is five feet ten inches of perfectly formed woman. She has longish honey-colored hair, perfect skin and green eyes behind black-framed rectangular glasses that make her look intelligent in a very sexy way. Right now she’s wearing short-shorts, even though it’s a pretty cold February evening, and a bikini top like they might reopen the pool down by the clubhouse any second. Sam also loves the Mets, the Jets, the Lakers, beer, poker, buddy movies and Morning Joe on MSNBC – all the things I love. Honestly, if she weren’t a lesbian and my BFF, I’d date her.
As if a non-lesbian Sam would ever have me. As if.
“Did you forget I was going to a wedding today?”
I’m feeling miffed. I have no problem keeping track of everything going on in Sam’s life, on her schedule. You’d think she’d be able to remember something as significant as me being Best Man in the wedding of one of my oldest friends and the girl I had a major crush on for a ridiculous amount of years.
“Sorry,” she says, with a half-apologetic shrug. “You’re in so many weddings. And what with all the Renee drama today and all…”
She trails off, no doubt expecting that by the time she finishes trailing,
Sam doesn’t even visually acknowledge my presence as I enter my own home, toss my keys on the table by the door.
“Can you believe the tats on that guy?” Sam says, eyes glued to the criminal on the screen. Then, Sam burps.
“The tits?” I say. “Well, he does look like he’s spent too much time in the prison gym.”
“Not the tits .” Sam is disgusted, not an uncommon occurrence. “The tats . The tats all over his body.”
“No, I can’t,” I say, taking a seat on the ottoman. “He’s like one big tat, which, when you think about it, is probably preferable to being one big tit. Not that there’s anything wrong with tits.” I squint at the TV. “Does he even have any eyes?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you and Renee have another fight?”
“What do you think?”
“It’s Sunday night, you’re here instead of next door. I’m thinking chances are good.”
Every time Sam and Renee fight, Sam comes over here, using the spare key if I’m not home. Sam and Renee have been together for about a year, and I doubt they’ll last another, but finding Sam on my couch has been going on a lot longer than that. Sam just likes my place better than the one next door, says the paint job here is better for promoting good feelings. No duh. Paint – it never lets you down. Paint – it’s what I do.
Sam’s been using that key for a good six years now, ever since I moved into this complex; Aunt Alfresca scoffed when I bought the condo, said a house would be a better investment, but it turned out that for once I was right, what with condos holding their value a lot better than houses in the current economic climate. When I moved in Sam’d already been here a while, we met the first day, instantly bonded, Sam helped me and Billy and Drew unload all my stuff from the U-Haul, we exchanged keys in case of emergency, and have been BFFs ever since. I realize the BFF designation is somewhat girly, but Sam says that’s what we are and I’ve learned not to argue with Sam.
I kick off my white patent-leather shoes. Geez, my dogs are tired.
The shoes make thunking sounds as they hit the floor and Sam tears her gaze away from the TV long enough to see where the thunks came from.
“What the hell are those things?” she says. Then, for the first time, she looks at me. “Oh my god, what are you wearing?”
I look back at her. Sam is five feet ten inches of perfectly formed woman. She has longish honey-colored hair, perfect skin and green eyes behind black-framed rectangular glasses that make her look intelligent in a very sexy way. Right now she’s wearing short-shorts, even though it’s a pretty cold February evening, and a bikini top like they might reopen the pool down by the clubhouse any second. Sam also loves the Mets, the Jets, the Lakers, beer, poker, buddy movies and Morning Joe on MSNBC – all the things I love. Honestly, if she weren’t a lesbian and my BFF, I’d date her.
As if a non-lesbian Sam would ever have me. As if.
“Did you forget I was going to a wedding today?”
I’m feeling miffed. I have no problem keeping track of everything going on in Sam’s life, on her schedule. You’d think she’d be able to remember something as significant as me being Best Man in the wedding of one of my oldest friends and the girl I had a major crush on for a ridiculous amount of years.
“Sorry,” she says, with a half-apologetic shrug. “You’re in so many weddings. And what with all the Renee drama today and all…”
She trails off, no doubt expecting that by the time she finishes trailing,
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