There were no romantic ships passing in the night. It was more like dinghies in the dark: Awkward, slow and hard to handle, quickly capsizing without ever finding land.
Who knows what lies in the hearts of men? And more importantly, who cares so long as they open our jars and kill spiders?
Nice try, sweetheart, but there’s no way you’re leaving me alone with a barely aware drunk chick. Who knows what she’ll accused me of later? This time tomorrow, the cops could show up at my door, and before you know it, I’m rocking an orange jumpsuit, singing “Summer Loving” with a guy named Snake.
We worked side by side building our sandwiches. Mine, just a few modest layers of meat and cheese, with a bit of lettuce for some added crunchiness; his, a Dagwood, piled high with turkey, ham, salami, lettuce, tomatoes, two kinds of cheese, and – were those jalapenos – with a teetering slice of bread carefully placed on top – there’s no way that’s going to fit into his mouth – he admired it for a moment then using his giant paw, smashed it into submission.