Nor did I utter a naughty word when Truly played a round at the pool table. Not when I caught a peek at the tops of her tits as she bent over to send the purple ball screaming into the corner pocket, and not when I watched the rear view as she whacked the next ball somewhere.
Where, I don’t know. Because I was enjoying the rear view.
And when she peeked under the table to run her hand along the leather material of the booth, I suggested not one filthy thing she could do while she was under there.
This is the new me.
Back in the friend zone. After all, we’re seeing Malone later today at a Yankees game. It’ll be the perfect chance to prove to myself, and to her, that I can stay right here, no problem.
I take a final drink of the beer. “So how are we doing? In the friend zone, that is?”
“And the you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours zone,” she adds, and just like that, I slide out of one zone and into another.
“Why did you have to say that?”
“The back-scratching zone?”
“Yes. I’ve been completely Zen today. I’ve been totally in the I-don’t-want-to-fuck-you-senseless zone, then you say that, and it reminds me of how you dug your nails into my back last night.”
“I did?”
“Do you want me to take off my shirt and show you?” I ask, because when I slide, I don’t half-ass it. I don’t tiptoe into flirt-infested waters. I do it all the way. Fins up.
She peers over my shoulder as if she can actually see the marks. “Did I really scratch your back?”
“Yes. And I loved it. Also, thanks a fucking lot. I was going to nominate myself for the Men’s Buddha Mastery Award for Not Thinking about Sex around a Woman You Want.”
She pats my arm. “I can still nominate you. I’m so impressed that you haven’t once said any filthy words. Like cock. Or pussy. Or fuck you senseless. Wait, my bad. You said those last ones.”
I toss my hands up. “You’re kicking a man when he’s down, woman. You can’t say ‘pussy’ and expect me to handle it with any sort of dignity or aplomb.”
“Dignity’s overrated when it comes to pussies. So’s aplomb. Also, pussy, pussy, pussy.”
“That’s it. I’m going to have to give you like twenty innuendos for saying that word.”
“Twenty? So that’s a normal hour for you and me.”
I scratch my jaw as if considering. “Sounds about right.”
She arches a brow with a quizzical look. “Have you ever thought about the word pussy?”
“Have I? Literally all the time. Well, I was behaving for an hour, and you ruined it. Now all I can think about is that word.”
“No, I mean the way it sounds. It’s kind of harsh.”
I slide closer to her in the booth. “There is nothing harsh about pussies.”
“But the word is harsh. Clearly, a man thought of the word. There’s no reason ‘pussy’ should be the slang term for a vagina.”
I cringe.
“Oh, please. Vagina, vagina, vagina.”
“No, that wasn’t why I made that face. I simply don’t see pussy as anything less than the most wonderful thing ever created.”
“Exactly. Therefore, it should have a better nickname. Think about ‘cock.’ That’s a fantastic nickname for the penis. It says what it is. It’s strong, it’s phallic—it’s a proud word. ‘Pussy’? Eh. It’s a little crude-sounding, a little dismissive.”
“What would you call that wonderful treasure between your legs?”
“If it were up to me, I’d have coined a much better nickname. Like silver. Or lily. Or summer. And then I could say, Oh, please touch my lily. Please finger my silver. Or go down on my summer. Go down on my summer now.”
My skin is sizzling, and I’m officially toastier than a forest fire. “Yes, I’d very much like to eat your summer, lick your lily, and kiss your silver. Also, I’d like to bury my face in your pussy.”
She lets out a shuddering breath as if this is hard for her too.
“And on that, want to go to Yankee Stadium and see your brother?” I ask.
“Thanks for the buzzkill.”
“You started it.”
30
It’s not football. And by football, I mean proper football. But baseball will definitely do.
Truth is, I rather like this American pastime, and that is unrelated to having an American-born dad and entirely down to how utterly cool his mother—my nan—was.
Nan, a born-and-bred New Yorker, was loyal to the Bronx Bombers till her dying day. She made me read her the box scores from the newspaper—the actual ink and print thing, not even online—during her last few days. She had season tickets before it was cool to have season tickets. She sat in the upper deck, hunched over in her blue-and-white windbreaker, keeping score and teaching me.
