![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The clinking of silverware. A jumble of voices, the smell of seafood. A stiff drink by my side, and a drinking stiff across the table.
Kevin and I were having dinner at McCormick and Schmicks at Fanueil Hall. Not terribly upscale, but the busboys are awfully fun to look at.
“So Louise says she’ll help look into things,” I was telling Kevin, feeling more excited than I had in days, while he sat there washing down a Tom Collins, strangely silent. “She thinks if we work together, we can clear my good name! Who knows, maybe we can even help Boston’s finest find out who pushed RJ down those stairs. Wouldn’t that be great?”
Kevin finished his drink. He placed his empty glass on the table, looking as if he had swallowed a sour pickle. “Who’s Skipper?” he asked, out of nowhere.
What? And yet there he was, sitting there with that damn look upon his face, acting as if I’d been caught in flagrante delicto. “What do you mean?”
Kevin’s brown cow eyes were moist. His flabby weak chins were quivering. “You received a phone call while I was dusting your apartment this morning.”
Oh, let me explain. Kevin volunteered to dust my apartment every other Monday a few years ago, while we were dating. After our lust bit the dust, I begged him to keep it up, since he was so much better than my pocket illegal, Cecilia.
“Skipper’s an old friend,” I replied. Our waiter arrived with my almond crusted rainbow trout. I looked up gratefully, and the slim lad before me appeared more appetizing than the trout. “Thank you, sweetie.” Then, back to Kevin, now stewing over seared sea scallops. “Skipper is an old friend from college. He recently came to me with a problem.”
Kevin wrinkled his nose. “What? A painful erection? And you had to handle it?”
( But can you handle more? Read on... )
Kevin and I were having dinner at McCormick and Schmicks at Fanueil Hall. Not terribly upscale, but the busboys are awfully fun to look at.
“So Louise says she’ll help look into things,” I was telling Kevin, feeling more excited than I had in days, while he sat there washing down a Tom Collins, strangely silent. “She thinks if we work together, we can clear my good name! Who knows, maybe we can even help Boston’s finest find out who pushed RJ down those stairs. Wouldn’t that be great?”
Kevin finished his drink. He placed his empty glass on the table, looking as if he had swallowed a sour pickle. “Who’s Skipper?” he asked, out of nowhere.
What? And yet there he was, sitting there with that damn look upon his face, acting as if I’d been caught in flagrante delicto. “What do you mean?”
Kevin’s brown cow eyes were moist. His flabby weak chins were quivering. “You received a phone call while I was dusting your apartment this morning.”
Oh, let me explain. Kevin volunteered to dust my apartment every other Monday a few years ago, while we were dating. After our lust bit the dust, I begged him to keep it up, since he was so much better than my pocket illegal, Cecilia.
“Skipper’s an old friend,” I replied. Our waiter arrived with my almond crusted rainbow trout. I looked up gratefully, and the slim lad before me appeared more appetizing than the trout. “Thank you, sweetie.” Then, back to Kevin, now stewing over seared sea scallops. “Skipper is an old friend from college. He recently came to me with a problem.”
Kevin wrinkled his nose. “What? A painful erection? And you had to handle it?”
( But can you handle more? Read on... )
