“What is it?”
“Check it out,” he said, and beamed like a little kid as Rachel opened the box and pulled out a figurine of a dancing woman. She was wearing a blue dress with a pink sash and was holding up one side of her gown as she twirled about.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, holding it up, wondering where she’d put something like this. “I saw something very similar to this in a museum in England,” she added. Which was where things like this belonged.
Myron nodded. “This is a copy of a French piece Lord Billingham brought from England to New York in the eighteenth century. His was bone china and hand-gilded.” As an assistant curator, Myron got an employee discount in the many gift shops of the Rhode Island Historical Preservation Society, and recently had become fond of buying reproductions.
“It’s lovely, Myron,” she said, putting it down again. “But you really shouldn’t buy me gifts.”
“Why not?” he asked with a quick, friendly buss to her temple. “I like to give you things.”
Right. But what she would really like to get from him was the money he owed her. She could just never think of a polite way to ask for it, and tried to think of one as she watched Myron pick up his ancient canvas backpack.
As no polite way came to her, another thought did. “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” she said, putting the figurine down. “Do you think you could get me a job with the preservation society?”
Myron choked on a cough. “A job?” he asked incredulously as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. “Why do you want a job?” He asked as if she were asking for a shot at leprosy.
“Because my dad is cutting me off, and I lost my internship, and I have a utility bill and a tree problem and about twenty bucks in the bank. It’s serious, Myron. I’m out of salami. So do you think you could get me one?”
Myron adjusted the backpack, looked at the kitchen door. “Well . . . no. No,” he said again, obviously flustered. “You can’t work at the preservation society, Rachel. I mean, you have to know what you are doing—”
“You can teach me!” she said brightly.
He laughed as he reached for the doorknob. “I don’t think so. It’s not like it’s on-the-job training. You have to know about the history and the artwork. Besides, you don’t want to work there—the pay’s no good. So okay!” he said quickly before she could argue that some pay was better than none. “I’ll check you later, okay?” And with a jaunty wave, he stepped through the back door and shut it soundly behind him
Dipshit.
Rachel looked again at the little figurine he had brought her, put it back in the box, and left it on the breakfast bar while she decided where to store it. In the meantime, she picked up Myron’s dirty plate, noticed her new, multifunction phone was gone, and looked around for it. It was nowhere. Myron must have inadvertently put it in his backpack. Could he be anymore annoying?
She put the dirty dishes away, then tried to raise Myron on the phone. He didn’t answer, of course. He probably didn’t know he had it. Rachel finally gave up and flipped on her computer to check her e-mail before she had to go teach her weaving class.
Subject: Re: Re: Hey
From: <[email protected]>
To: Rach <[email protected]>
F. Y. IIIIIIII you moron, the zing in our sex life is helped along by experimentation across a broad spectrum, and if you ever tell Jake I said that, I will kill you. Anyway, I just figured you and My-Ron are doing the tantric thing, so why can’t we? Just send me the stinking book already, will you? Rob
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Hey
From: <[email protected]>
To: <manning70@earthlinknet>
First of all, Einstein, Tantra is not a sex manual. It’s a way of thinking and believing and is all about the harmony of spirits. Do you even have a spirit, by the way? If you want EZ-read pictures, go get a copy of the Kama Sutra. That should give you some broad spectrum to talk about. And F.Y. IIIIIIII, Myron and I do not practice tantric anything. Our relationship is strictly platonic. I thought I told you that! I know I did!! If you’d get your mind out of the gutter you might remember some of the very important stuff I tell you! Stop bugging me.
Rachel
She hit the Send button and happened to notice the time—she was going to be late for her class. She grabbed up her purse and headed for the corner grocer near class, cursing My-Ron the whole way for eating all her brownies.