Page 8 of A Little Campfire Blues

“I didn’t bother trying to sleep until after midnight,” I admitted, my ear pressed to his shoulder as we just clung to oneanother like we both expected the moment to shatter and leave us standing there alone.

“And you’re still here this early?”

“I’m still good to go on five hours of downtime.”

“Downtime that I hope involved closing your eyes, at least for a little while,” he chided in that gently reproachful tone he’d always had.

“I slept for a full four hours and even made myself breakfast before I hit the road. Finally got the hang of folding an omelet over so all the filling stays where it belongs.”

“I’m sure your pans are eternally grateful that you’re not standing in your boxers by the stove, threatening to beat them with a spatula.”

The moment the image popped into my head, I dissolved into a fit of giggles, remembering the look on his face over the video chat feed as he’d attempted to talk me through making one after I’d complained that my favorite diner had closed. Pan-fried potatoes I’d easily gotten the hang of, but those damned omelets, holy shit, I’d been ready to accept defeat at the hands of two defiant little eggs.

He'd been right; investing in a non-stick pan had helped my efforts greatly, along with the addition of a teaspoon of milk for each egg I used.

Use a wire whisk, not a fork, and season the poor eggs, for fuck’s sake. Oh my god, whip them; don’t beat the shit out of them, and make sure you pick any shell fragments out first.

How he’d known I’d gotten shell fragments in the fuckin’ bowl was beyond me, but I picked out three before proceeding.

“I’m sure they’d thank you if they could,” I said as we finally stepped back from one another, but not far.

I could still reach out and touch him if I wanted, but I settled for letting my gaze rove over his body, mapping the changes I’d only partially seen through the video feed. The turquoise tanktop he had on showed off the tattoo on his bicep. The trio of pandas was sweet and comical. One sprawled on its back, one standing on its head, and one dangling from a bent bamboo branch, feet poised like it was kicking.

“Is that still the only one you’ve got?” I asked.

“It is, and before you open your mouth to suggest it, don’t. I will not be getting a tattoo of Mighty Mouse on my ass.”

I made a show of zipping my lips and tossing the key over my shoulder, snickering at the memory of that conversation.

“Just remember, Mighty Mouse wasn’tmyidea in the first place.”

“No, you just suggested the placement.”

“You wanted a spot where you wouldn’t risk your folks seeing it,” I reminded him. “With the Speedo you wore for swimming, there weren’t many options left.”

“How about my hip?”

“How about your cock?” I blurted and watched his eyes grow wide.

While he sputtered, I took a moment to admonish my inner voice, which had never managed to grow a filter. Wish the little fucker would; it was going to get me into trouble one of these days.

“Why would you even go there?” He finally asked.

Shrugging, I just kept on giggling at the horrified look on his face.

“Seriously, there has to be some reason your mind would even go there.”

“I may have watched Duce get a cobra’s head tattooed on the head of his,” I admitted, laughing harder as his horrified look morphed into one of abject terror and disbelief.

He raised a finger, started to say something, shook his head, then covered his eyes with his hand and just snickered.

“How am I only hearing about this now?”

“Guess we never got to that story or anything else that led into it.”

“You guess? Nah, dude, I’ve said for years that you’ve been holding out on me. Now I’ve got proof.”

“Maybe.”

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