Read Online Good In Bed by Jennifer Weiner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jennifer Weiner
Tags: Fiction
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plastic Wal-Mart bag into my right pocket, four small dog biscuits and a tennis ball into my left. Nikfin was jumping about crazily, caroming from my couch to his couch, down the hall to the bedroom and back again at warp speed, pausing only to dart a lick toward my nose. Every morning, to him, is a celebration. Yay! he seems to say. It’s morning! I love morning! Morning! Let’s go for a walk! I finally got him out the door, but he kept prancing at my side as I fished my sunglasses out of my pocket and put them on. We proceeded down the street, Nifkin practically dancing, me dragging behind.
The park was almost empty. Just a pair of golden retrievers sniffing at the bushes, and a haughty cocker spaniel in the corner. I unleashed my dog, who promptly and without provocation made a beeline for the cocker spaniel, barking frantically.
“Nifkin!” I hollered, knowing that as soon as he got within a foot or two of the other dog he’d stop, give a deep, disdainful sniff, perhaps bark a few more times, and then leave the other dog alone. I knew that, Nifkin knew that, and it was more than likely that the cocker spaniel knew it, too (it’s been my experience that other dogs mostly ignore the Nif when he goes into his attack mode, probably because he’s very small and not all that menacing, even when he’s trying). But the dog’s owner looked alarmed as he saw a spotted, sneering rat terrier missile streaking toward his pet.
“Nifkin!” I called again, and my dog for once listened to me, stopping dead in his tracks. I hurried over, trying to look dignified, and scooped Nifkin into my arms, holding him by his scruff, looking into his eyes and saying, “No,” and “Bad,” the way I’d learned in Remedial Obedience. Nifkin whined and looked disgruntled at having his fun interrupted. The cocker spaniel wagged his tail hesitantly.
The cocker spaniel guy was looking amused.
“Nifkin?” he asked. I could see he was getting ready to pop the question. I wondered if he’d have the nerve. I made myself a bet that he would.
“Do you know what a nifkin is?” he asked. Score 1, Cannie. A nifkin, according to my brother’s fraternity friends, is the area between a guy’s balls and his ass. The sportswriters had named him.
I put on my best puzzled look. “Huh? It’s his name. Does it mean something?”
The guy blushed. “Uh, yeah. It’s, um… it’s kind of a slang term.”
“For what?” I asked, trying to look innocent. The guy shuffled his feet. I looked at him expectantly. So did Nifkin.
“Um,” said the guy, and stopped. I decided to have mercy.
“Yes, I know what a nifkin is,” I said. “He’s a secondhand dog.” I gave him the abbreviated version of the sportswriter story. “And by the time I figured out what a nifkin was, it was too late. I tried calling him Nifty… and Napkin… and Ripken… and, like, everything else I could think of. But he won’t respond to anything but Nifkin.”
“That is rough,” said the guy, laughing. “I’m Steve,” he said.
“I’m Cannie. What’s your dog’s name?”
“Sunny,” he said. Nifkin and Sunny sniffed each other tentatively as Steve and I shook hands.
“I just moved here, from New York,” he said. “I’m an engineer”
“Family in town?”
“Nope. The single guy.” He had nice legs. Tanned, slightly furry. And those dumb Velcro-strapped sandals that everyone was wearing that summer. Khaki shorts, a gray T-shirt. Cute.
“Would you like to have a beer maybe sometime?” he asked.
Cute, and evidently not averse to the sweaty, queen-size woman.
“Sure. That’d be great.”
He smiled at me from under his baseball cap. I gave him my number, trying not to get my hopes up, but feeling pleased with myself nonetheless.
Back home, I gave Nifkin a cup of Small Bites kibble, ate my Special K, then gargled, flossed, and took deep, calming breaths, preparing for my interview with Jane Sloan, lady director extraordi-naire who I’d be
The park was almost empty. Just a pair of golden retrievers sniffing at the bushes, and a haughty cocker spaniel in the corner. I unleashed my dog, who promptly and without provocation made a beeline for the cocker spaniel, barking frantically.
“Nifkin!” I hollered, knowing that as soon as he got within a foot or two of the other dog he’d stop, give a deep, disdainful sniff, perhaps bark a few more times, and then leave the other dog alone. I knew that, Nifkin knew that, and it was more than likely that the cocker spaniel knew it, too (it’s been my experience that other dogs mostly ignore the Nif when he goes into his attack mode, probably because he’s very small and not all that menacing, even when he’s trying). But the dog’s owner looked alarmed as he saw a spotted, sneering rat terrier missile streaking toward his pet.
“Nifkin!” I called again, and my dog for once listened to me, stopping dead in his tracks. I hurried over, trying to look dignified, and scooped Nifkin into my arms, holding him by his scruff, looking into his eyes and saying, “No,” and “Bad,” the way I’d learned in Remedial Obedience. Nifkin whined and looked disgruntled at having his fun interrupted. The cocker spaniel wagged his tail hesitantly.
The cocker spaniel guy was looking amused.
“Nifkin?” he asked. I could see he was getting ready to pop the question. I wondered if he’d have the nerve. I made myself a bet that he would.
“Do you know what a nifkin is?” he asked. Score 1, Cannie. A nifkin, according to my brother’s fraternity friends, is the area between a guy’s balls and his ass. The sportswriters had named him.
I put on my best puzzled look. “Huh? It’s his name. Does it mean something?”
The guy blushed. “Uh, yeah. It’s, um… it’s kind of a slang term.”
“For what?” I asked, trying to look innocent. The guy shuffled his feet. I looked at him expectantly. So did Nifkin.
“Um,” said the guy, and stopped. I decided to have mercy.
“Yes, I know what a nifkin is,” I said. “He’s a secondhand dog.” I gave him the abbreviated version of the sportswriter story. “And by the time I figured out what a nifkin was, it was too late. I tried calling him Nifty… and Napkin… and Ripken… and, like, everything else I could think of. But he won’t respond to anything but Nifkin.”
“That is rough,” said the guy, laughing. “I’m Steve,” he said.
“I’m Cannie. What’s your dog’s name?”
“Sunny,” he said. Nifkin and Sunny sniffed each other tentatively as Steve and I shook hands.
“I just moved here, from New York,” he said. “I’m an engineer”
“Family in town?”
“Nope. The single guy.” He had nice legs. Tanned, slightly furry. And those dumb Velcro-strapped sandals that everyone was wearing that summer. Khaki shorts, a gray T-shirt. Cute.
“Would you like to have a beer maybe sometime?” he asked.
Cute, and evidently not averse to the sweaty, queen-size woman.
“Sure. That’d be great.”
He smiled at me from under his baseball cap. I gave him my number, trying not to get my hopes up, but feeling pleased with myself nonetheless.
Back home, I gave Nifkin a cup of Small Bites kibble, ate my Special K, then gargled, flossed, and took deep, calming breaths, preparing for my interview with Jane Sloan, lady director extraordi-naire who I’d be
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