“I hardly know what to say,” he said.
“Did you get me anything?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact,” Enzo said, and then pulled out his PDA, punched up something, and handed the PDA to me. On it was another poem. I read it.
“This is very sweet,” I said. It was actually beautiful, but I didn’t want to get mushy on him, not after just sharing video of him taking a hit to his nether regions.
“Yes, well,” Enzo said, taking back the PDA. “I wrote it before I saw that video. Just remember that.” He pressed his PDA screen. “There. In your queue now. So you can treasure it always.”
“I will,” I said, and would.
“Good,” Enzo said. “Because I get a lot of abuse for those, you know.”
“For the poems?” I said. Enzo nodded. “From whom?”
“From Magdy, of course,” Enzo said. “He caught me writing that one to you and mocked the hell out of me for it.”
“Magdy’s idea of a poem is a dirty limerick,” I said.
“He’s not stupid,” Enzo said.
“I didn’t say he was stupid,” I said. “Just vulgar.”
“Well, he’s my best friend,” Enzo said. “What are you gonna do.”
“I think it’s sweet you stick up for him,” I said. “But I have to tell you that if he mocks you out of writing poems for me, I’m going to have to kick his ass.”
Enzo grinned. “You or your bodyguards?” he asked.
“Oh, I’d handle this one personally,” I said. “Although I might get Gretchen to help.”
“I think she would,” Enzo said.
“There’s no think involved here,” I said.
“I guess I better keep writing you poems, then,” Enzo said.
“Good,” I said, and patted his cheek. “I’m glad we have these little conversations.”
And Enzo was as good as his word; a couple of times a day I’d get a new poem. They were mostly sweet and funny, and only a little bit showing off, because he would send them in different poem formats: haiku and sonnets and sestinas and some forms I don’t know what they’re called but you could see that they were supposed to be something.
And naturally I would show them all to Gretchen, who tried very hard not to be impressed. “The scan’s off on that one,” she said, after she had read one I showed to her at one of the dodgeball games. Savitri had joined the two of us to watch. She was on her break. “I’d dump him for that.”
“It’s not off,” I said. “And anyway he’s not my boyfriend.”
“A guy sends poems on the hour and you say he’s not your boyfriend?” Gretchen asked.
“If he was her boyfriend, he wouldn’t be sending poems anymore,” Savitri said.
Gretchen smacked her forehead. “Of course,” she said. “It all makes sense now.”
“Give me that,” I said, taking back my PDA. “Such cynicism.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re getting sestinas,” Savitri said.
“Which don’t scan,” Gretchen said.
“Quiet, both of you,” I said, and turned the PDA around so it could record the game. Enzo’s team was playing the Dragons in the quarter-final match for the league championship. “All your bitterness is distracting me from watching Enzo get slaughtered out there.”
“Speaking of cynicism,” Gretchen said.
There was a loud pock as the dodgeball smooshed Enzo’s face into a not terribly appealing shape. He grabbed his face with both hands, cursed loudly, and dropped to his knees.
“There we go,” I said.
“That poor boy,” Savitri said.
“He’ll live,” Gretchen said, and then turned to me. “So you got that.”
“It’s going into the highlight reel for sure,” I said.
“I’ve mentioned before that you don’t deserve him,” Gretchen said.
“Hey,” I said. “He writes me poems, I document his physical ineptitude. That’s how the relationship works.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t your boyfriend,” Savitri said.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said, and saved the humiliating snippet into my “Enzo” file. “It doesn’t mean we don’t have a relationship.” I put my PDA away and greeted Enzo as he came up, still holding his face.
“So you got that,” he said to me. I turned and smiled at Gretchen and Savitri, as if to say, See. They both rolled their eyes.