Page 67 of Poetry On Ice
Send more pics
I message in an attempt to distract him. Or to distract me.
Face or ass?
Ass
I type quickly and hit send before I can change my mind. Or do something stupid like ask for what I really want: a picture of his pretty face, all sleepy and smooshed into his pillow.
I sleep badly. Not least because it occurred to me in the early hours that the reason I want a photo of McGuire’s sleepy, smooshed face is because that’s how he looks when he’s all happy and snuggled up beside me, nonconsensually cuddling the crap out of me right before we fall asleep in each other’s arms.
I’m in a blind panic, and I know there’s only one person who can deal with me when I’m like this. I place the call and watch her name light up on my screen. I let it ring forever. She picks up one, maybe two rings before the call times out.
“Hey, Shithead,” she says as if it’s been days, not years since we last spoke. I hear her voice in my jaw and throat,in places that remember our shared history and how much I’ve missed her. “Are you there?”
I make my lips and tongue move. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m here.”
There’s a pause, a lull that makes me think she might be hearing my voice the same way. “You sound like you’re crying.”
“I’m notcrying. I just haven’t been called Shithead in a really long time.”
Laughter chimes out of her. Some would hear the sound and mistake it for a villainous cackle. I hear it and feel like I’ve been transported back in time. “Oh, honey,” she says, “now that Idon’tbelieve.”
I start laughing too and we talk as if no time has passed. She doesn’t skip a beat, just launches herself into telling me about this prize-ass named Sebastian she works with. “You know when they say, ‘Does anyone have any questions?’ at the end of a meeting?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, shoving a throw pillow under my head and pulling up a throw blanket as I curl up on the sofa.
“It’s known that isn’t a question, right? It’s a social cue to signal the end of a meeting, right?”
“Yep, everyone knows that.”
“Want to know who doesn’t?”
“Se-fucking-bastian?” I guess.
“Se-fucking-bastian is the right answer.”
We take turns talking, whooping like rabid hyenas when the other says something inappropriate or liable to get us committed if our conversation ever gets leaked.
“Sorry I haven’t called more,” I say when the conversation finally dies down.
“’S okay, Shithead. I didn’t call either.”
“I wanted to call. I missed you like crazy. It’s just that…”
“…the more time passed, the harder it got to pick up the phone?”
“Yeah, it was like that.”
She sighs and blasts a long breath down the line. “I think this is what happens to friendships when both people are assholes who hate talking on the phone.” I give that the chuckle it deserves, and she adds, “I missed you too. I thought about calling you a lot. A while back, I almost did. I saw a photo of you and—”
“Let me guess—you saw the picture of me and McGuire? The one where I looked good and he looked deranged?”
The laugh she unleashes this time can only be described as pure evil. Even by my standards. “You lookedsogood.”
“Thanks.”
“Honestly, you hardly even looked homicidal.”