I drove to the newspaper office around
7 o’clock and met Lucy in the lobby. She was sitting on a sofa placed there for
visitors, reading text messages on her phone and holding a thick file folder
full of papers. She was wearing a short brown corduroy skirt the color of a
Hershey Bar, a tan turtleneck sweater with the sleeves pushed up on her arms
and a pair of dark brown shoes with a three-inch heel that made her taller, but
still short. Her long black hair was parted in the middle and swirled perfectly
around her head and shoulders, and she was once again wearing a whole bunch of
necklaces of varying lengths.
I was dressed in casual gray slacks, a
bright red t-shirt with a white Aerosmith logo on the front and my badly worn
leather bomber jacket. The gray slacks had been hiding in the back of my closet
for months, and I liberated them so Lucy wouldn’t think I was living on the
street. As for the shirt and jacket—well, I’ll only go so far as a slave to
fashion.
We went for Chinese this time and Lucy
told me about her geek friend Simpkins, who thought she was Chinese and not
Korean. “You know us slants,” she said, mockingly referring to her Asian eyes.
“We all look alike.”
“You look perfect to me,” I said.
“Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Outer Mongolian, who cares. You could be from
Jupiter as far as I’m concerned.”
“Well, thanks for saying Jupiter and
not Uranus,” Lucy said.
“The thought did cross my mind,” I
confessed. “I love yours.”
“My anus?”
“Your rings.”
“That’s Saturn.”
“Them, too.”
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