“I don’t watch TV at night…” Her voice drifts off, and I know it’s because she realizes I’m going to ask why.
And I do.
“You’re going to laugh.”
“It’s because I can’t hear things.”
“What kinds of things are you trying to hear?”
“I don’t know. Strange noises and things…”
“Do I need to spell it out for you?” She’s trying to sound annoyed, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Apparently, because I have no idea what you’re talking about. What kinds of strange noises are you going to hear? I usually turn my TV up to block out all the strange sounds like the neighbor’s kids and the lady behind me that sounds like Fran fucking Drescher.”
“You know who Fran Drescher is?”
“My mother was a big fan of that stupid show she was in. Stop changing the subject. What are you listening for? Hayden won’t sneak out.”
“What if someone breaks in?”
“You’re not serious.”
“Of course I’m serious!”
“What do you do all night?” I ask.
“Work,” she admits. “Well, usually I clean, and then I work.”
“I’m coming over.”
The panic in her voice doesn’t make her sound upset about the idea, but afraid.
Is it because she likes me?
“Why not?” I ask.
“It’s like nine o’clock.”
“Are you about to turn orange and sprout a stem?”
“That and I’m not wearing a bra, if you must know.”
“So put it back on.”
“You don’t understand. That’s like saying put your jeans back on.”
“I am in jeans,” I lie just to get a reaction out of her.
“What is wrong with you?” she cries.
“What’s wrong with jeans?”
“They’re stiff and uncomfortable. Wearing jeans all day is basically equivalent to walking on sandpaper. But at least you guys have pockets that will actually hold something larger than a thimble and don’t ride up your ass.”
“If your bra is riding up your ass, we have bigger fish to fry than being afraid of the boogey man.”