Henry and I are just hanging out on the couch right now. Hi! And somehow the subject of me being a hussy came up, how some guy made me feel uncomfortable when he called me pretty.
“Uncomfortable?” Henry said with incredulity. “That’s funny.” Because I eat that shit up with a fancy grapefruit spoon, you see.
“Yeah, but right now I’m just not in the frame of mind,” I said, trying to reassure him that I won’t be out roaming the pastures.
Henry laughed again. Not a “I’m watching Chapelle’s Show” laugh, but more of a disgusted “You’re a cheatin’ whore” throat scrape. “But you can change like that,” he said, snapping his hard-working, blue-collared fingers.
Desperate to ease his paranoia, I pointed out that my annual spring fever will be coming up soon. “And maybe it’ll be for you!” I punched his stomach for punctuation.
“Oh please. When you have ever spring fevered me?”
“I did that one year!” I blurted out.
I think it would be fun if Henry guest-blogged on here. Maybe write about his favorite kitchen memories or tediously tap out tales from his days in THE SERVICE, which maybe could make people respect him! (Not me though; lost cause right here.)
If there’s something you’d like Henry to write about, let me know right here! Misty suggested a day in the life, which I think would really be riveting. (I mean, as long as I know in advance the day he’s going to start writing, in order to create fires – metaphorical and literal – so he’ll have something other than work and sleep to tell the Internet.)