Dirty

“I knew it!” She didn’t seem to mind that I’d lied to her before.

Marcy owned more brushes than Picasso, all shapes and sizes and kept in a rolled-up leather case. She whipped out one now and used it to dab at the lipstick. I watched, fascinated as she drew in her lips like a paint-by-numbers picture.

“So he’s got a good job. Big deal. Has he got a big dick?”

I coughed and blushed. I don’t know why. I’ve heard worse. Said worse.

“It’s adequate,” I said.

“Oh,” she said sympathetically, blotting her lips on a square of tissue. “Small?”

“No! Marcy, good Lord!”

“Adequate? C’mon, Elle.” She turned to face me. “Cut? Uncut? Long? Short? Thick? Thin? What?”

“Jesus, Marcy. Who looks that closely?” I bent to scrub my hands.

“Who doesn’t?” She began packing away her box of paints and powders.

“He has a very nice penis,” I told her. “Aesthetically pleasing and fully functional.”

She rolled her eyes. “Spare me, would you? You’re acting like this is no big deal.”

I pushed open the door to the bathroom and started for my office. She followed. She didn’t stop at my doorway, either, but came right in and made herself at home.

“Have a seat,” I offered wryly. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Give me one of your diet sodas,” she said. “I know you hide ’em in that minifridge.”

I handed her a can and settled behind my desk. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Yes.” She cracked the top open and drank, not seeming to care she was ruining the lips she’d just worked so hard to paint.

“Shouldn’t you go do it, then? Instead of interrogating me about my sex life?”

“Who’s interrogating?” She cried. “I’m just asking.”

I had to laugh at her. “Marcy, we had sex. It’s no big deal.”

She frowned. “Sugar, that’s just sad. It should be a big deal, otherwise why bother?”

She had a point, one I’d made for myself when I’d sworn off the act altogether. “It was worth the bother, all right?”

“So he was good.”

“He was good, Marcy!” I shook a pen at her. “You nosy bitch!”

She put a hand over her heart and looked wounded. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

I sighed, resigned. “He took me to the movies, and we went to his place, after.”

I didn’t mention the dance club or the bathroom at La Belle Fleur. Marcy oohed, anyway. She leaned forward on her seat.

“Did he put the moves on you right away, or did he pretend he wanted to show you his soda can collection?”

“I think we both knew why I was going back there. And he doesn’t collect cans, at least that I can tell.”

“Phew,” she said. “Because that’s total turn-off.”

I laughed again and shook my head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Marcy drank some soda, then set the can on the edge of my desk. “Elle, if you don’t mind my saying so—”

“Would you stop if I did?”

“Hell, no.”

I waved my hand. “Then by all means, carry on.”

“I think it’s good you got out.”

Her words touched me, and I smiled. “Thank you, Marcy.”

She nodded, then winked. “So you’ll be seeing him again.”

My smile dimmed a bit before I answered. “Yes.”

“Geez. You sound thrilled. What’s the matter, he chews with his mouth open? What?”

I shrugged, studying the folders of work piled high on my desk. “No. He has very pleasant manners.”

“Uh-oh,” she said. “Very pleasant manners. An aesthetically pleasing penis. You’re regressing, girl, let me hear you say he’s a great fuck and fun to be with.”

There would be no resisting her. I knew that by now. Yet I gave in to Marcy not because she could be an insistent, nosy bitch, but because I’d never have admitted my thoughts out loud had she not pushed.

“I like him.”

“So what’s the problem?” She looked concerned. “That’s a good thing.”

I shrugged again. I had my reasons for not wanting to like him. For avoiding relationships. They were shitty and pathetic reasons, but I had them.

“You don’t have to marry him.”

“Heaven forbid,” I said, startled at the thought. “Good God, no.”

She held up her hands. “Just saying. What’s wrong with going out, having a good time, getting laid?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. I just…” I shrugged. “It’s not really my thing.”