Page 52 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
I let out a long breath. “I’m normal most of the time. But when the nervous energy takes over, that’s when the lips start to fly.”
“I know. So don’t get nervous.”
“Easy for you to say. I have to woo a woman who”—I lean forward and whisper—“if I’m honest, is extremely attractive.”
Storee’s eyes widen as a large smile passes over her ChapStick-covered lips. “Oh, well, this is a new development I wasn’t aware of.”
“Can you not?”
“Uh, no, I can. I’ve never heard you mention anything about a woman you find attractive. This is the first time. So I need to revel in it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Tell me what you like about her.”
“Nothing,” I say. “I like nothing about her. I didn’t say I liked her. I said she was attractive.”
“Okay, then what do you think is attractive?”
“The obvious things,” I say, getting annoyed.
“And what would those obvious things be?”
“You’re really going to make me say it?”
She smirks and brings her mug to her lips. “I am.”
“Fine,” I huff. “She has a gorgeous face. Symmetrical in all the right ways. Her nose is cute, with a bit of a swoop at the end that I find adorable. And her bow-shaped lips are not too big but not too small either, perfectly proportionate. I think the dimples she has add to the charm of her face, but it’s her eyes that are simply stunning. Caught me off guard at first. And when they shine against the bright snow, they’re incredibly captivating.”
“Oh... my... God,” Storee says, unable to hold back her smile. “I was so not expecting you to say that. I was expecting a simpleI like her eyes, not a monologue about how they captivated you.”
Passing it off as nothing, I say, “I’m one with the words. What can I say?”
She leans forward more and whispers, “Are you doing this whole wooing thing to get with someone? Like, do you want to date her?”
“Absolutely not,” I say with a shake of my head. “No, not even a little. She has a beautiful face, I will give her that, but her personality does not match. I’ve talked to her a few times now, and let me tell you, a real trash bag, that one. All garbage. Bleh.”
Storee chuckles. “It feels like you’re overcompensating.”
“I’m not. Trust me, we have nothing in common. I’m a cinnamon roll, and she’s an overbearing oven ready to roast me to dust.”
“Uh-huh . . .”
“Storee, I’m serious. I have no intention of actually becoming romantically attached to this woman. How could I? She’s related to Dwight, red flag number one. She thinks she can waltz into town and put someone out of business, red flag number two, and she uses Pepsi as a weapon, red flag number three. If I presented this case to that guy on social media who runs giant green and red flags across a field, he would struggle having to cart aroundthe red flag that is Betty. So in conclusion, no, not interested. Thank you for asking.”
“Okay. Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Just want to be sure, because if there are feelings there, then I don’t want to move forward with this in case you get hurt more.”
“Trust me, I won’t get hurt.” I wink and then take a sip of my coffee. “I’m iron, baby. Nothing penetrates me.”
“You know, a lot can penetrate iron. Even oxygen, leading to rust?—”
“You know what I mean,” I say, exasperated.
Sheesh.
