We left and headed downtown to an urban upscale bar where all the desperate housewives hung out. It was one of those places where the barstools had fabric-covered seats. Little LED lights hung from the ceiling over each of the chairs and tables. Denise waved at her boss. He was some middle-aged guy who looked like an engineer. He even wore a white shirt with a pocket protector. He was rugged and handsome with salt-and-pepper hair and kind brown eyes. He introduced himself as Tom. She was fucking a staid, middle-aged engineer (in the supply cabinet) whose name was Tom Jones. I am not kidding. Tom Jones! Do you know how hard it was not to laugh at his name. I had a flash of him as a slimy lounge singer who seduced all of the girls.
INT. RED-VELVET LOUNGE – NIGHT
Tom Jones wears a boring white shirt and trousers. He walks on stage, strips off his horrible corporate attire to reveal black disco pants and a red silk shirt. He sings, “She’s a Lady.”
WHAT MEN DON'T LIKE
“Men don’t do well being told their wives and girlfriends cheated,” he said. “We men have very fragile, pea-sized egos you see. We like to believe, true or not, that we’re ‘the guy’ with the biggest hard on. You understand? You tell this Kale friend of yours you fucked someone else. You will shoot down his mighty ego. My best advice: keep it to yourself.”
Denise stroked his arm and said, “Oh look at you Mr. Manly Man. You’re such a stud-muffin.” She stroked his arm like it was his ego, which metaphorically at this moment it was. When she stroked that shirt, I noticed the man, in fact, might have a nice body under that conservative façade. Look at me. I was focused on his muscles and not his words. Good God someone please take me to behind the woodshed, take aim, and fire. Maybe I was worse than a man.
TAKE YOUR BIKINI BODY AND GO
Letty pouted and acted unhappy, because I was quitting. I stood there, staring into her sad brown eyes. She was adding receipts at the counter and looked down as she talked. “Oh fine! You go be a big rock star,” she moped.
“You mean screenwriter,” I chided her, hoping to lift her sour mood.
“Oh yeah, take your cute bikini ‘bod’ and go, fine, fine,” she continued to mope.
FUN WITH LETTY
“Letty!” I cried as she sprung on me and jumped me so that we fell backwards into my apartment onto the sage green carpet.
She was laughing uproariously and straddled me as I fell onto my back. She pretend slapped me for a moment and then got up. “Doll face!” she cried with enthusiasm. “Let’s get out of here! You look bored.”
I started laughing. She wasn’t my boss anymore, as I had said goodbye to what Kale had called “bikini hell”. Letty in true style and form wore a cropped mini-jean skirt with a pink t-shirt that clashed with her purple hair that said, “Up Yours!” She looked appropriately chic and rebellious all at once.