This Star Won't Go Out

I forced a smile, though it must have looked like I was in pain for she asked if I was all right.

“Yep, I’m good, thanks!” I said, smiling. “So, let’s talk you. How’ve you been?”

“Haven’t we been talking about me?” She gave a grin, her pink lipsticked lips raising beautifully. “I guess you can’t get enough of me, eh?”

As I was about to sarcastically respond, our food came. Usually when we go out, the waiter mixes up our order, giving me Kaitlyn’s food, and Kaitlyn mine. This time was no different. “As I was saying,” I continued, greedily grabbing à-la-fat-and-cholesterol Kaity had given me, pushing her salad away from her dramatic pursed lips (she often teased me as being a “meat-eater,” disgusted by healthy foods), “How’s work? I haven’t seen much of you lately . . .”

Kaity looked at me with her bottom lip turned over, a smile playing in her eyes. She reached over and patted my non-hamburger filled hand, awwing, unaware of the tingling she left on me as she pulled away. “Poor baby, have we been missing Kaity-Waity?” she teased, giggling.

“Ha, ha,” I responded, frowning. “You still haven’t answered me . . .”

She stopped, taking on a mock serious expression and answering me—finally. “Well, to be honest to goodness, work sucks. I’d been trying to get that promotion, but it’s already filled by some huge boobs, big butt, blonde psychochick.”

Kaitlyn was an assistant’s assistant (who knew?) at the “chicest”—I guess the other then chicest are wrong!—magazine in New York, The Burglar’s Purse. Funny enough, it has nothing, nothing at all, to do with Burglar’s but everything to do with purses and the like. It was about fashion, and her assistant had run off with the Editor’s assistant. She was trying to get one of those jobs (the editor’s assistant or her post-employer’s), but, apparently, she wasn’t qualified. I don’t understand what qualifications you have to have to have to choose an aluminum foil pant suit for the number two “must have,” like in issue 3, volume 7 of The Burglar’s Purse, that Kaity forced me to read. It was torture, I remember.

“Your boss is a guy?” I asked, remembering none of this.

“I wish,” she laughed, “but, nope. She is a lady, but I guess playboy bunnies are getting educations now-a-days.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t get the job,” I said, meaning it, and also feeling awkward talking about boobiful girls with Kaity. “You deserve it—after all, they can get a job as a stripper slash bunny and you ca-”

Before I could finish Kaity leaned over and whacked me on the head, her eyebrows raised and her mouth half open, half smiling.

“For the record,” she stated, “telling a girl she could be a playgirl or something like that isn’t much of a compliment.” I stared at her, wondering what she had just done. Okay, I thought slowly, she just hit me, right? And, and she . . .

“Um?” My thoughts were, as normal, interrupted by Kaity, her voice lost in hilarity and scorn for my comment, “Hey, Jude, you alright?”

If I had a penny for every time someone thought I was ill when I’d think things over, why, I’d be rich! A millionaire, even. Oh yeah . . . Kaity was asking me something.

“Hmm? Kaity, you, above anyone, should know I go off sometimes! And no,” I cut her off, as she was saying something, “I’m not going to the doctor.”

Silence. Chew, chew. Cleared throat.

This had happened when I’d told other people, but not Kaity. I’ve done this “and no, blahblah” before, but Kaity’d always laughed or something. Crap . . .

“Jude?”

I looked up from dipping my side french fries in ketchup.

“Yes, babe?”

“Jude, I’m . . . well, I’m,” she stalled, as though her speech was temporarily disabled. “I-I’m . . . seeing someone.”

“Um. Okay.” That was hard to get out, huh?

“He’s really great,” she quickly said, doing her nervous thing, “and nice. He’s my boss’s nephew’s step brother’s father’s second wife’s brother.”

I gaped. “Wow.”

“Yep, yep, yep. And my boss’s niece came to one of our conferences, and she wants to be an auditor, I mean editor.” Here she breathed and smiled at her own stupidity. “And she introduced me to a picture of this second wife’s brother. Anyway, she came in again about a week later, and introduced me to the body of this dude, and turns out he works for The Work of Art!” she finished enthusiastically, waiting for my response.

I hid, as best as I could, my confusion, and instead stood up and ran over to hug her, forcing her up and shouting girlish like squeals. Wait, why was I excited?

“So he offered you a job!” I said, not wanting to hurt her feelings more as to find out if he did.

“What?” she stopped, and sat back down, her face confused. “Who? The picture boy?”