hear it makes guys look bigger down there), then maybe it hasn’t been my breath or my clothes or my deodorant that’s been holding her back.
I stare into space while gauging the thickness of my eyebrows with my fingertips and trying to recall the last time I examined them in a mirror. Too thick? Untamed? Not well-shaped?
Betty cuts through my mental measurements (my ’brows are bushy and huge, by the way, and I’m trimming them as soon as I get home tonight, since I’m sure it’ll be an early night, and I’ll be alone… as usual) by setting down her wine glass with a clink and saying, “So, you know about Frankie’s writing, yeah?”
Blinking, I try to remember what we were talking about before any mention of my body hair. “Uh… yeah. I think it’s… great.”
Hypothetically, of course. I still haven’t read a single word of it, although I don’t admit that to Betty. Something tells me she already knows, anyway. I signal for another round, despite starting to worry I’m not going to be able to drive myself home. This brand of beer is good, but it’s kicking my butt tonight. Lunch was a long time ago.
Betty nods her approval of my support but stares down at the table and mutters, “Her books are great.”
Frankie smiles tightly. “Thanks. I think I’m ready to publish, but… the thought of strangers reading my books… it’s like they’d be looking into my soul.”
“Your books are autobiographical?” I inquire.
Hmm… that might explain why she’s so opposed to me reading them. A glance in my peripheral vision reveals a squirmy Betty, who’s finding her final drops of wine to be quite interesting as she makes them chase each other around the bottom of her glass.
Frankie shakes her head and blushes. “No. I mean, maybe a little. Not all the time. But readers will assume they are.”
I make a face. “Who cares? And anyway, I don’t think that’s true. Do you think Samuel Pembroke has lived or thought all the things he’s put his characters through?”
“Uh-oh…” Betty mutters across the table. “You had to say that name?”
Frankie’s face hardens. I look from her to Betty and back again. “What’d I do? What’d I say? Samuel Pembroke? The guy who writes all those CIA epic thingies? Why’s that bad?”
“I get so tired of everyone thinking he’s the end-all and be-all of fiction writers.”
Betty signals for another round. “Here we go.”
“Okay…” I reply warily. “He’s a genius. Nobody can argue that.”
“Samuel Pembroke,” Frankie says with a sneer. “Samuel Fucking Pembroke. I’m not saying he’s not a great writer. If you like those sorts of books.”
“Even if you don’t… I mean, I certainly don’t, but he’s a legend.”
“Whatever! The point is, he wrote a few dozen bestsellers and a how-to on writing, so now it’s impossible to have a discussion about writing without his effing name coming up. ‘Samuel Pembroke says…’ ‘According to Samuel Pembroke…’ You know, I think if Samuel Pembroke wasn’t Samuel Pembroke, he’d tell Samuel Pembroke to go fuck himself.”
Speechless, I stare at her.
Betty flaps her lips and drums her fingers on the table.
Frankie holds my eye contact, jutting out her chin for good measure. “I’m sorry,” she finally mumbles, looking away and shredding her cocktail napkin. “I just get so annoyed with the Samuel Pembroke references.”
“I see that. His name was the first one to pop into my head, and it illustrated my point, that’s all,” I explain. “I don’t even like his books. They bore the crap out of me.”
She puts her hands on either side of my face and plants a playful peck on my lips. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “That rant was probably so random.”
“Kind of,” I admit, feeling like I’m riding the Bi-Polar Express, with Frankie as the conductor.
She lets go of my face but takes possession of my hand. I squeeze it, but more to appease her than to show affection.
I stare into space while gauging the thickness of my eyebrows with my fingertips and trying to recall the last time I examined them in a mirror. Too thick? Untamed? Not well-shaped?
Betty cuts through my mental measurements (my ’brows are bushy and huge, by the way, and I’m trimming them as soon as I get home tonight, since I’m sure it’ll be an early night, and I’ll be alone… as usual) by setting down her wine glass with a clink and saying, “So, you know about Frankie’s writing, yeah?”
Blinking, I try to remember what we were talking about before any mention of my body hair. “Uh… yeah. I think it’s… great.”
Hypothetically, of course. I still haven’t read a single word of it, although I don’t admit that to Betty. Something tells me she already knows, anyway. I signal for another round, despite starting to worry I’m not going to be able to drive myself home. This brand of beer is good, but it’s kicking my butt tonight. Lunch was a long time ago.
Betty nods her approval of my support but stares down at the table and mutters, “Her books are great.”
Frankie smiles tightly. “Thanks. I think I’m ready to publish, but… the thought of strangers reading my books… it’s like they’d be looking into my soul.”
“Your books are autobiographical?” I inquire.
Hmm… that might explain why she’s so opposed to me reading them. A glance in my peripheral vision reveals a squirmy Betty, who’s finding her final drops of wine to be quite interesting as she makes them chase each other around the bottom of her glass.
Frankie shakes her head and blushes. “No. I mean, maybe a little. Not all the time. But readers will assume they are.”
I make a face. “Who cares? And anyway, I don’t think that’s true. Do you think Samuel Pembroke has lived or thought all the things he’s put his characters through?”
“Uh-oh…” Betty mutters across the table. “You had to say that name?”
Frankie’s face hardens. I look from her to Betty and back again. “What’d I do? What’d I say? Samuel Pembroke? The guy who writes all those CIA epic thingies? Why’s that bad?”
“I get so tired of everyone thinking he’s the end-all and be-all of fiction writers.”
Betty signals for another round. “Here we go.”
“Okay…” I reply warily. “He’s a genius. Nobody can argue that.”
“Samuel Pembroke,” Frankie says with a sneer. “Samuel Fucking Pembroke. I’m not saying he’s not a great writer. If you like those sorts of books.”
“Even if you don’t… I mean, I certainly don’t, but he’s a legend.”
“Whatever! The point is, he wrote a few dozen bestsellers and a how-to on writing, so now it’s impossible to have a discussion about writing without his effing name coming up. ‘Samuel Pembroke says…’ ‘According to Samuel Pembroke…’ You know, I think if Samuel Pembroke wasn’t Samuel Pembroke, he’d tell Samuel Pembroke to go fuck himself.”
Speechless, I stare at her.
Betty flaps her lips and drums her fingers on the table.
Frankie holds my eye contact, jutting out her chin for good measure. “I’m sorry,” she finally mumbles, looking away and shredding her cocktail napkin. “I just get so annoyed with the Samuel Pembroke references.”
“I see that. His name was the first one to pop into my head, and it illustrated my point, that’s all,” I explain. “I don’t even like his books. They bore the crap out of me.”
She puts her hands on either side of my face and plants a playful peck on my lips. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “That rant was probably so random.”
“Kind of,” I admit, feeling like I’m riding the Bi-Polar Express, with Frankie as the conductor.
She lets go of my face but takes possession of my hand. I squeeze it, but more to appease her than to show affection.
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