Page 4 of The Other Guy

Me: Sincerest apologies.

I start eating and curl my lip at my meal. I may have planned on changing things up, but I didn’t take the time to do it. My parents would smack me on the back of my head for not using the cooking skills they so diligently taught me. Hell, one of the reasons my dad and I connected so well was our love of cooking.

My mouth waters thinking about the shrimp and grits Dad used to make every Sunday. Cheesy, creamy grits covered in spicy sautéed shrimp and sauce. Damn. I haven’t had his home cooking in so long. There’s nothing he can’t master in the kitchen. Whether it’s something as simple as meatloaf or something complicated like Beef Wellington, his food is always delicious. Maybe I need to go see them. It’s not that they even live far away. I flip to the notes app in my phone and go to my grocery list, adding the ingredients and promising myself that I’ll make shrimp and grits soon. I work out almost every day. I can eat comfort food once in a while. Then I add several more ingredients so I can stop this cycle of tasteless food.

Unknown: Do I detect a hint of smartass in that text tone?

Me: Me? Nooooo. Never.

Unknown: You know, you weren’t a smartass last night.

Me: No? How would you describe me, then?

Before I can stop myself, I plug her phone number into my contacts and label her 16. I have a feeling that even though we’ll never meet and she’ll likely never see Toolbag again, she could be entertaining to text with once in a while. Plus, she hasn’t sent me a nude so I don’t feel so gross chatting with her.

16: Honestly?

Me: No. Lie to me. That’s my favorite.

16: Kind of a toolbag.

I choke on my chicken. A hunk flying out of my mouth as I cough and pound on my chest. Then start laughing at the fact that I choked the chicken and shake my head at my immaturity. I’m thirty-three years old, for fuck’s sakes.

Me: Well, don’t sugar coat it or anything.

16: You were the one who said not to lie!

Me: I did say that.

Me: So tell me how I came out like a toolbag?

16: You really wanna know? Really?

Me: Of course. You first said that last night was great then you follow it up with calling me a toolbag?

16: Well, toolbag or not, the four orgasms you gave me were fantastic. I’ll deal with your less than stellar personality to get the good orgasms.

Four? Seriously. I need to recruit this fucker to join my gym and start boxing in our league.

Me: Good? I thought you said fantastic.

16: Geesh. I didn’t realize you needed your ego stroked so much.

16: Scratch that. I remember how much you like the stroking of things.

I laugh out loud at her quick wit.

Me: You have a good memory.

16: Certain things you don’t want to forget.

Me: I aim to please.

16: You aimed well. Hit the target every time.

I have no idea if she’s trying to make a little bit of sexual innuendo here. Either way, it causes me to grin. Again. I feel like an idiot, staring at my phone with a broad smile on my face. Thank goodness I live alone and no one’s here to witness this.

Me: Why, thank you. Or maybe you’re welcome is more appropriate.

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