Frannie and I have this little game that we play.
When she's distressed about something and wants to talk, she pretends she doesn't. I give her a Special, count to three and she's flapping her gums.
So, when she tramped into Mocha Daze with a look on her face like she'd just seen her puppy get flattened by a steamroller, I asked her, "Honey pie, what's the problem?"
"Oh, nothing," she sighed, and then sighed, again, in case I missed the first one.
One Special later, I had to change my shirt because she ended up crying, literally and figuratively, on my shoulder. It was a Christine story, which I figured.
I tried empathetic consolation: "You're better off. I never liked her, anyway."
Frannie wiped the snot from her nose and shot me a stare with her wet, puffy eyes. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"No, it's supposed to make ME feel better and you know what? It's working!"
She made a dramatic gesture of burying her face in her hands. "I don't want to talk about it."
I smoothed out her hair with my hand. "Drink your coffee, my little desert flower. Caffeine is good for you."
Mike wasn't what I expected.
I must confess that when Greg described their initial 'handshake,' complete with stirring erotic details, my dirty old mind hoped we'd meet under similar conditions.
Alas, this was not to be. He was fully clothed.
Tight jeans, those big tennis shoes that basketball players wear, a T-shirt advertising some New York dance troupe and, how clichˇ, leather jacket.
Standard rough trade, but a nice ass.
Greg had brought him by to meet Frannie, who really wasn't in a mood to meet anyone. I don't think she was impressed. That's pretty typical for her, though. I don't think she really likes anyone the first time she meets them. Anyway, I hope she picks him as a roommate. It'll do her good. He's cute and he seems nice enough.
Next time he comes in, I'll fix him a Special.
