“No one has ever had anything good to say when starting a sentence here’s the thing,” I told him.
“You don’t know that,” he said. “Gandhi could have been all, like, ‘Here’s the thing: love everyone and junk.’”
“Right.” I wondered if I could just steal the ring from his hand without him noticing because he didn’t deserve to wear something so precious if he was saying what I think he was saying. “Because Gandhi sounds just like an errant fruitcake making up excuses.”
“God,” Paul said, “the sentences that come out of your mouth should shock me more than they do. I don’t know what that says about me.”
“Deflecting,” I said. “Out with it.”
“March,” he said.
“March,” I repeated flatly. “As in this coming March. Paul. It’s October. Are you out of your mind? Why, picking out the flower arrangements alone could take up to six months to get right! No, I’m sorry, but that is simply unacceptable. Tell Vince the wedding is off. You two can’t be trusted to handle it correctly and therefore it shouldn’t happen at all.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “Not going to happen. I’m sort of invested in the whole marriage thing now that I know it’s real. Had you asked me about this last week, I would have laughed and made fun of whoever was getting married. Now that it’s me, it’s sacred and I will not stand for any backtalk. Also, don’t move to Texas. You don’t look good with big hair.”
“That is a slanderous lie and you know it. I look good with any kind of hair.”
“Cher circa 1987.”
“Oh,” I said, grimacing. “Yeah. I forgot about that. That was a mistake that I will never be able to unsee.”
“It hurt us all,” Paul agreed.
“No marriage.”
“Yes marriage. So much marriage.”
“Speaking of,” I said. “How in the hell did neither of us know about this? I love him, you know I do, but you’re obviously giving Vince too much leeway. It’s time to tighten the leash a little bit. Who knows what other surprises could be waiting for you.”
“Like. Sexy surprises?”
I nodded. “Or like surprise fisting. No one likes surprise fisting, Paul.”
“How do you know?”
“Trust me.”
The waitress walked over to our table.
“You’ve been fisted?” Paul asked me, sounding disgusted and impressed.
The waitress immediately turned around and walked the other direction.
“Almost.”
“How does one almost get fisted?”
“There were four fingers with the promise of a thumb,” I said.
“The promise of a thumb,” Paul repeated through a mouthful of arugula and raspberry vinaigrette.
“The promise of a thumb,” I agreed. “It was a promise that was never fully realized as I came to the conclusion that I was not one for sitting on an arm.”
“I saw a fisting video once,” Paul said. “The guy looked like he enjoyed it, but I couldn’t help but think what it would be like to walk around with your arm smelling like butt.”
“That’s what enemas are for,” I said, mixing another sugar into my tea. “You get clean and fresh on the inside before so there’s no arm-butt smell.”
“And I suppose you can’t eat before getting fisted,” Paul said. “Digestion and all that. I assume there’s no after-Thanksgiving fisting.”