“Why do you order such spicy food if you can’t handle it?” Clara asked from her perch on the arm of the sofa. She hoovered up a bowl of chicken curry that I couldn’t even get within two feet of, and I had a pretty strong palate. She tipped up the edge of her bowl and slurped the rest of the sauce, smacking her lips.
“I love it. It’s so spicy, but I love it,” Natalie replied, moving toward the kitchen and stopping to check her reflection in the mirror. “But look how puffy it made my lips! It’s like a lip plumper!”
While she preened, I rolled toward Clara on the couch. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
“I needed an excuse to get out of Boston for the weekend; things are positively stale there right now.” She looked toward my bowl of laksa. “Are you going to finish that?”
“I’m stuffed. Hit it.” As I passed her my takeout, I marveled that someone could eat so much and never gain a pound.
Clara and Natalie couldn’t be more opposite, and I wondered, not for the first time, that if we hadn’t all been away from home for our first time, if we ever would’ve become friends.
Clara was petite and athletic, with an almost boyish figure. A long-distance runner since high school, she walked with a powerful stride. She had an economy of movement that served her well as she competed in marathons and triathlons all over the world. With closely cropped blond hair and caramel colored eyes, she was a quiet beauty.
The most well traveled of our trio, Clara had a job that most people envied but few can actually do. After leaving culinary school, she enrolled in Cornell’s prestigious hotel management program. Rather than spend her nights and weekends working the front desk at the Brookline Marriott, though, she parlayed her keen eye and analytical mind into a position with a branding agency in Boston. She helped failing hotels in the United States and abroad get back on their feet, specializing in older historic hotels. So she traveled almost nonstop, sometimes spending weeks on site.
“Stale? Why? What’s going on?” I asked as she shoveled in the last few bites of food.
“I don’t really know. Work just seems a bit off at the moment. There might be some changes up top, and it makes for a weird vibe. I’m heading out of town next month, though, which will be nice.”
“And what glamorous city are you off to next? London? Amsterdam? Rio?”
“Orlando.” She sighed. Then burped slightly, which she apologized for with a sheepish grin.
“Orlando? That’s a little . . . different for you,” I replied, crinkling my eyebrows.
“It’s a little awful for me. What the hell do I know about magical mice?” she snorted, pushing the bowl away from her and patting her nonexistent tummy.
“What’s a magical mouse? Is that like a Rabbit?” Natalie asked, swooshing back in from the kitchen and depositing herself on the floor on front of me.
Clara looked at her sideways. “No, it’s—”
“Because let me tell you, nothing beats a Rabbit. Not a hand, not a dick, not even those little remote-control ones that fit right inside your panties. Nothing beats a Rabbit.” Natalie paused. “Although a tongue is a close second.”
“It has to be the right tongue, though,” Clara interjected. “Attached to the right face.”