Something silly
"So it really doesn't exist?" She asked, somewhat rhetorically, while
hoping for an answer that would not destroy her long held fantasies.
"Not
that I've found," Monica replied while pretended not to eat the cake
by only picking off little bites at a time, as if being non-committed
would somehow mean that she wasn't actually mainlining the chocolate
decadence.
Jonesy liked this "absentee eating," pattern of her friend. She
found it endearing. But then, Jonesy's tactic in life was to find things
about others, and herself, endearing so that she would be less annoyed.
They were sitting at a table near, but not in the window seats with
warm golden light from the caramel colored ceiling lamps warming up the
orange wood of the floor. Outside a light drizzle in the dim gray light
made everything feel a little more quiet, a little more contained, safe
even.
Monica wiped her fingers absentmindedly on the cloth napkin and
started fidgeting with the tea cup, golden white contrasted with the
oily mahogany of the small but heavy table.
"You know, I've been
thinking...." Jonesy sighed slightly and looked out the window as she
talked. "Maybe I've been limiting myself too much with marriage."
Without moving her head or changing the position of her mouth,
Monica lifted her eyes to look right at Jonesy with that "you've got to
be kidding me," look Jonesy knew she'd get.
"What? I mean come
on, you've been dating for a year now and you're getting it more than
you ever did with old Mack. And look at you, never been more radiant, or
self confident."
Monica shook her head, "You've got it all wrong Jonesy! I do the
best I can in my circumstances. And yeah, sometimes it's fun. But come
on, do I have to remind you about Stalker Steve? Or Pouting Tom?" She
tapped one finger against the edge of the saucer holding her nearly
empty cup. "Give me a break!"
Jonesy laughed. "Okay, I know I know. But geezus aitch Monica, I just don't get it enough."
"That,
my friend, is the fate of all women - starting with puberty, then
pregnancy, and finally peri-menopause. We're at the whim of our chemicals." And
with that she dug back into the cake while laughing ruefully.
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