Page 32 of So This Is War
“Thank you,” I say, smoothing my palms together. “I’d consider myself a man’s man.”
“You clearly have the lotioned balls to prove it,” she jokes while gesturing to my crotch.
Heh.
Yeah . . .
Glad we can bring that full circle.
I pull on the back of my neck. “I go through a lot of lotion.”
Not something she needs to know.
“I can imagine.” Her eyes meet mine. “Any special type? Perhaps a burnt mahogany scent. Make that sack extra manly.”
Christ.Change the subject, man.
“Just regular,” I answer while clearing my throat. “Anyway, I, uh, I take great pride in my apartment.”
“I see that. You should. It’s really nice in here.” Her eyes fall to the coffee table in my living room, where I have three books stacked with a candle on top. “Do you even read those books?”
“Nope,” I say. “It’s all part of the design and feel of the apartment.”
“Ah, so you’re trying to portray intelligence when, in reality, there’s very little intelligence in this apartment?”
“Pretty mu—” I pause, thinking about it. “Uh, no. There’s intelligence in this apartment.”
She turns toward me and smiles. “Well, there must be intelligence if you’re wise enough to pair a camel-colored couch with a gunmetal-gray wall.”
“Some might say brave,” I say.
“Very brave.” She pats my chest, and I let out the breath I was holding in one giant swoop. Her eyes meet mine as she says, “You know, I’m just trying to lighten the mood. Make conversation. No need to hold your breath . . . or your tongue.I know this is awkward for both of us, and I don’t want it to be awkward.”
It’s awkward, all right.
It’s nevernotgoing to be awkward.
But I’m not going to say that to her.
“I’m not awkward. Are you awkward? Because I feel fine. Great actually. Rip-roaring and ready to go.”
Her smile grows wider. “Oh yes, I’m rip-roaring and ready to go as well.”
“Great.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels. “Because I think if we keep everything super professional, we can make the most of this situation. Possibly excel as the best boss/assistant relationship.”
“Wouldn’t that just be fantastic,” she says. “Imagine the accolades we could win by not being awkward but rather rip-roaring professionals. People around us might be so impressed that they write to the Foreign Press. Tell them there needs to be an award made just for us.”
I know she’s being sarcastic.
I know she’s trying to lighten the mood.
But, Jesus fuck . . . I’d be fucking thrilled to win an award documenting my excellence in professionalism and managerial skills.
“What would the trophy look like?” I ask, feeling myself drift off in thought.
“Maybe a statue of a man with a woman at his feet, clutching his leg and looking for direction.”
I glance her way and scratch my jaw. “Uh, not exactly what I was thinking.”
