Me: Okay…
Lark McCapSnatcher: But now that I took off my gloves, all I can think about is taking off the rest of my clothes. With you.
Me (My dick goes hard.): Are you drunk?
Lark McCapSnatcher: Very.
Lark McCapSnatcher: And horny.
Lark McCapSnatcher: My sister is taking my phone away. TTYL!
Wow. That’s all I can say. Wow.
Friday morning, she texts me again.
Lark McCapSnatcher: I’m so sorry.
Me: For what?
Lark McCapSnatcher: For subjecting you to my drunken ramblings.
Me: I liked your drunken ramblings.
Lark McCapSnatcher: You did?
Me: Yep. Lots.
Lark McCapSnatcher: Even the part about me being a…virgin?
Me: Hey, you can talk to me about the state of your vagina any time you want.
Lark McCapSnatcher: I thought maybe it would scare you off.
Me: Nothing you could do would scare me off. I do wish you’d go out with me sometime soon, though. I miss you.
Lark McCapSnatcher: You just miss your cap.
Me: Nope. It’s you. All you.
Me: I got to go. Client’s waiting. TTYL?
Lark McCapSnatcher: I’ll see you tomorrow.
Friday Reed marches up to me with her hands on her hips. “What are your intentions with Lark?”
I grin at her. “None of your business.”
“Fuck that,” she says. She picks up a pair of scissors and advances toward me. I immediately cover my package and step back.
“All right, all right,” I say, like I’m surrendering to the cops. Trust me, you’d surrender too if you had a pixie with fangs coming at you with a pair of scissors, looking like she’s going to shear your balls off and fry them with eggs for breakfast. “I really like her.”
“Like her like her?” she asks.
“How many ways are there to like her?”
“Like, could love her like her?” She stares me down.
“Like, want to get to know her more like her. Like, can’t stop thinking about her like her. Like, I’m irritated that she’s been busy all week like her.”
“But she’s hearing.”
“I know.”
“You don’t date hearing girls.”
“I didn’t date hearing girls. Then I met Lark.” I shrug.
She grins and shoves my shoulder. “Can I give you some advice?”
“Like I could stop you.”
She looks supremely satisfied. “Keep doing exactly what you’re doing.” She shrugs. “That’s all.”
“I was going to do that anyway.”
“But now you have my permission to keep doing it.”
“Thank you?” I say with a question mark at the end. What do you say to that? Really?
“You’re welcome.” She fluffs her short little skirt. “I know it’s totally breaking the girl code, but I’m going to go ahead and tell you that she really likes you. A lot.”
“Thanks.”
“She talked about you last night.”
“Okay.” See, the thing is, with Friday Reed, you don’t have to prompt her. She’s going to tell you what she thinks no matter what. I’m aware of that. Her husband Paul gives me a thumbs-up from behind her back. She follows my eyes, turning to look at him, and then he turns his thumbs-up into a head scratch.
“Keep up the good work,” she says to me. Then she flounces off to do whatever it is that Friday does. Like drink warm blood. Or torture small penis-shaped pin cushions with sharp needles.
***
On Saturday, I keep looking toward the door, hoping to see the sheen of Lark’s ponytail or the brown of her eyes, but so far it’s just one soldier after another.