By SUSAN ANN CONNOR
“Lemontini, please,” I said to the nice waitress with an extra large earring in her nose. I was dying to ask her if it hurt, if it ever got infected and what possessed her, but I was exhausted from too much information for one day already and withheld the questions.
It had been a long day and I was looking forward to this evening with my friends. We hadn’t seen each other for a while, and the gathering was overdue. These were my game night people and comrades to count on: Maggie, Kate, Clare and our token male, the Jackster.
For the first 20 minutes we discussed the audacious blemish that had crept onto Kate’s chin. Where did it come from? How to get rid of it? And why humans, no matter what age, have to put up with pimples? None of us had definitive answers, but Jack told us “zit” in German is “pickel.” Good to know.
At some point during these nights, everybody gets a talking shift. We do a quick rotation on current events in our lives. My turn arrived in conjunction with the dessert menu. Though the ‘Death by Chocolate Mousse’ was devilishly tempting, I selected a berry bowl after another peek at Kate’s swelled chin.
I told them work was going well and I’d persevered through that infesting writer’s block. Finally, after all these years, I’d found a bra that fit. And Strawberry was sweeter than ever.
Strawberry had attended a game night once, so they all knew him. It’s not that he’s bad at games, he’s just not good. Everybody liked him a lot but didn’t really want him on their team. Frankly, he did-n’t seem to care that he was so God-awful. But he’s a good sport, and we laughed about it later.
After I told them about our romantic getaway to the mountains for Valentine’s day, Clare looked at me funny. She gave me the eyebrow lift, and I knew what it meant. Was I going to tell the others that Colin had reemerged?
To tell you the truth, I hadn’t planned on it.
I knew I was avoiding discussion. They’d say I’m nuts about even entertaining the possibility of dating him again, which I wasn’t. I don’t think. And nothing was really happening anyway. But Clare’s lift was so severe, that I decided to fess up and keep it honest.
“Oh, and Colin called me a few months ago,” I dropped casually.
They stared at me incredulously. Finally Kate spoke, though briefly. “And?” “And I’ve seen him a couple of times,” I reluctantly continued.
“Are you nuts?” Maggie blurted.
See, told ya. “Let me finish,” I tried to explain. “He called out of the blue and left a message. That night I dreamt he was at my door with a shrunken torso, a schmushed head and twirling a long thin tail. I woke up in a terrible sweat. And the next day he actually showed up uninvited, with flowers, begging forgiveness. No more lost and lonely Lola. He’s changed. So he says. And I’ve had a few lunches with him. That’s all. He’s being patient, but persistent. There. That’s it.”
Then the quizzing began. How could I talk to him again? But since I did, what did he say? What did I say? Where has he been? Where did we go for lunch? How did I feel? Was I out of my mind? What about Strawberry?
Jack’s only question was could Colin come to game night again. The women jabbed him with their eyes. Colin, unlike Strawberry, was an excellent game player.
“This reminds me of when I was interrogated while working undercover in Nicaragua,” I said deflecting.
“You worked undercover in Nicaragua?” Kate asked, cupping her chin.
“Maybe,” I teased. Maggie piped in. “We have a right to protest, you know. We don’t want you hurt again. That big fat cheater.”
“I know.” Long dissenting pause. “But, hypothetically, what if it’s suppose to be?” I wondered.
“Hypothetically,” Maggie responded. “What if there was an oversized bull headed your way, would you stand there contemplating if the universe wanted you to take him for a stroll through the pasture, or would you run like hell?”
“Good point.” I was ready for a nap. Lalalala... (Susan Ann Connor Follow her Strawberry stories, which are somewhere between fact and fiction, on the first Friday of each month. Names have been changed to protect the innocent... and the guilty.)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on March 3, 2006. Read the original PDF.