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Authors: Maggie Barbieri
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some ‘alone’ time,” she said, making those stupid finger quotes, and with the misguided conviction that what she had done was justified and, actually, considerate. “I assumed he was there to ask you out.” She slid into the booth and tossed her snakeskin purse and multiple shopping bags onto the seat next to her.
“Then why did you run?” I asked.
She picked up her menu and looked at it for a moment before shutting it, ignoring my question entirely. “He’s very cute.”
I slammed my menu shut, content with ordering the same item I ordered every time I came to the diner: curried egg salad on seven-grain bread, a chocolate egg cream, and a plate of fries. “He’s not going to ask me out, Max,” I clarified. “But he might put me in jail.” I pulled a napkin out of the holder and wiped it across my upper lip. “ I am a suspect in a murder case. ” I spoke slowly and clearly so that she couldn’t mistake what I was saying for, “I’m in love with Detective Crawford,” or whatever else she might possibly hear in the alternate universe in which she lived.
She raised an eyebrow at me.
“That’s just what I think. They’ve never said anything to that effect.”
“You’re probably right. Cops wouldn’t show up at your office twice unless you were on their most-wanted list.” She looked around. “I wish I was on the other one’s most-wanted list,” she muttered, opening her menu again. “Hey, I’m thinking about a new show,” she said, after making a new lunch decision. “It’s called Detectives and in it we follow around two hot New York City detectives as they investigate murders. What do you think?” she asked.
I’ve known Max long enough to know that her ditsy facade is just that—a facade. She is one of the smartest people I know and good at what she does; she hadn’t earned the title of “Queen of Reality TV” for nothing.
“Not funny, Max,” I said. “You could always do Murder 101 and follow me as I end up on death row.”
The waiter arrived and we placed our order: me, the usual, and Max, a medium cheddar burger with fries and a chocolate shake. She looked at me, and said, “I didn’t have breakfast,” as a way of explaining her large order. She’s one of those people who eats to excess and remains a size four; if I hadn’t witnessed her hedonism over the last twenty years, I wouldn’t have believed it myself. But she ate and drank to excess five out of seven nights, never exercised, and still looked amazing.
“Who does the strip search if you go to jail?” she asked, only half-joking. “The cute one or my new boyfriend?”
I rolled my eyes. “This is serious, Max. What if I am their only suspect?” I looked around to see who was sitting in our general vicinity, but didn’t spot any suspicious-looking private eyes hiding behind menus or large policemen lurking.
The waiter appeared with the drinks, and Max put her straw into the giant thick shake and took a long sip. She licked her upper lip with her tongue. “Look at it this way. If you are a suspect, you’ll get to see Detective Hot Pants on a regular basis.” She let out a laugh, obviously amused with herself.
I wasn’t feeling so lighthearted. I looked around the restaurant, feeling vulnerable, exposed, and a bit sad. Max was like Teflon—everything slid off her. She didn’t seem affected by anything and found humor in almost everything. And right now, she wasn’t even sensitive enough to shut her trap and notice that I was scared. I decided not to make an issue of it and dropped the subject entirely. “What are you doing tonight?” I asked.
“Sleeping over at your house,” she stated, surprising me. When she saw my reaction, she explained herself. “We haven’t had a sleep-over in a while, so I figured we could do that tonight. Let’s go to the video store and get some porn. Maybe something with ‘Detective Hot Pants’ in the title?” She reached across and held my hand for a split
“Then why did you run?” I asked.
She picked up her menu and looked at it for a moment before shutting it, ignoring my question entirely. “He’s very cute.”
I slammed my menu shut, content with ordering the same item I ordered every time I came to the diner: curried egg salad on seven-grain bread, a chocolate egg cream, and a plate of fries. “He’s not going to ask me out, Max,” I clarified. “But he might put me in jail.” I pulled a napkin out of the holder and wiped it across my upper lip. “ I am a suspect in a murder case. ” I spoke slowly and clearly so that she couldn’t mistake what I was saying for, “I’m in love with Detective Crawford,” or whatever else she might possibly hear in the alternate universe in which she lived.
She raised an eyebrow at me.
“That’s just what I think. They’ve never said anything to that effect.”
“You’re probably right. Cops wouldn’t show up at your office twice unless you were on their most-wanted list.” She looked around. “I wish I was on the other one’s most-wanted list,” she muttered, opening her menu again. “Hey, I’m thinking about a new show,” she said, after making a new lunch decision. “It’s called Detectives and in it we follow around two hot New York City detectives as they investigate murders. What do you think?” she asked.
I’ve known Max long enough to know that her ditsy facade is just that—a facade. She is one of the smartest people I know and good at what she does; she hadn’t earned the title of “Queen of Reality TV” for nothing.
“Not funny, Max,” I said. “You could always do Murder 101 and follow me as I end up on death row.”
The waiter arrived and we placed our order: me, the usual, and Max, a medium cheddar burger with fries and a chocolate shake. She looked at me, and said, “I didn’t have breakfast,” as a way of explaining her large order. She’s one of those people who eats to excess and remains a size four; if I hadn’t witnessed her hedonism over the last twenty years, I wouldn’t have believed it myself. But she ate and drank to excess five out of seven nights, never exercised, and still looked amazing.
“Who does the strip search if you go to jail?” she asked, only half-joking. “The cute one or my new boyfriend?”
I rolled my eyes. “This is serious, Max. What if I am their only suspect?” I looked around to see who was sitting in our general vicinity, but didn’t spot any suspicious-looking private eyes hiding behind menus or large policemen lurking.
The waiter appeared with the drinks, and Max put her straw into the giant thick shake and took a long sip. She licked her upper lip with her tongue. “Look at it this way. If you are a suspect, you’ll get to see Detective Hot Pants on a regular basis.” She let out a laugh, obviously amused with herself.
I wasn’t feeling so lighthearted. I looked around the restaurant, feeling vulnerable, exposed, and a bit sad. Max was like Teflon—everything slid off her. She didn’t seem affected by anything and found humor in almost everything. And right now, she wasn’t even sensitive enough to shut her trap and notice that I was scared. I decided not to make an issue of it and dropped the subject entirely. “What are you doing tonight?” I asked.
“Sleeping over at your house,” she stated, surprising me. When she saw my reaction, she explained herself. “We haven’t had a sleep-over in a while, so I figured we could do that tonight. Let’s go to the video store and get some porn. Maybe something with ‘Detective Hot Pants’ in the title?” She reached across and held my hand for a split
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