The Sex is Still Always Just Fine

The Sex is Always Just Fine

“Oh honey, the sex was just fine. The sex is always just fine–”

“Arched back? Gasping for–”

“What is it you’re reading these days?” Connie centered her sweating Arnold Palmer on the cardboard coaster then dabbed her lips with a linen napkin. She examined the contour of tendons under the slack skin on the back of her hand. “But really you’re on the right track there. He was funny.”

“Mmm. Doing it with a guy who makes you laugh is the best.” Lisa popped a cherry tomato leftover from her salad in her mouth and Groucho Marxed her blonde eyebrows. Seeds spurted out of her lips.

“Ew, no,” Connie said, but Lisa continued waggling her eyebrows. Connie grimaced and looked away. “Stop. Just stop. No, what meant was he was comical.”

“What? Then his thing did stand-u–”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll walk the check on you.” Downtown Denver was never a cheap place to eat, but the Palomino in particular prized its cuisine. Lisa sat up straight and put her hands primly in her lap atop her creme skirt. Connie doubted that pose would last after what she said next. “No. He’d clearly seen too much porn.”

“Ahhh, the bush freaked him out?”

“Jesus, Lisa!” Connie sputtered. The pair of women froze like nuns in a bathhouse as their unnoticed waiter topped off Connie’s glass with more tea. He departed with a professionally blank face, but Connie would never eat there again.

Connie warmed to the thought of the next thing she would tell Lisa, but she reached for her ice-filled glass because of the thing she would not. “He was fascinated by the panty-lines on my hips. He kept tracing the indentions in my skin.”


“Was that a question or were you agreeing?”


“Cool. It was cool.”

302 words on day 745