Page 14 of Man Hands
“You’re doing it again!”Brahtsays.
“What?”
“You’re making that mopey face. Stop it. Just fucking find this girl so you can get on withyourlife.”
This is not helpful. “You’re the one who threw the party atmyhouse. So who is she? Where do Ifindher?”
“I don’t know! There were three hundred people at that party, and I wasdistracted.”
I don’t have to ask who the distraction was. It was the realtor babe who works in the Eastown office. He’s been in love with her for about five years. She treats him like he’s a complete dickwad, and he loves it. Heisa complete dickwad, most of the time, so I like herforthat.
“Give me some details,” Braht says and he balances a slice of his poached egg on a tiny end of his toast and takes a dainty bite. I try not towatch.
I think about Brynn’s hair instead. It’s a soft, silky brown. Feels great between my fingers. And her lips. Plump, full. And that wrap dress I peeled off her. I start to get a little hard at the table, so I eat some Meat Lovers Scrambler to quiet down thoseendorphins.
Then it occurs to me. What I should do. I grab an extra roll of silverware, unroll it, flatten out the napkin in front of me. “Pen!”Icry.
“Pen?Why?”
“Just hand me afuckingpen!”
Braht hands me a pen. And I draw. I’m inspired. I picture her in my mind, feel my hands rubbing over her curves, and I draw what she looks like. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. It takes me a minute before I triumphantly shove the napkin inhisface.
He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Then, “You do realize you’ve drawn a large pair of boobs? It’s a nice drawing, Tom. But it’s easier to identify a girl byherface.”
I’m not sure that’s true. But it’s no use, anyway. “Ball point on a napkin? I’m good with my hands, but even I couldn’t do her face justice. Let’s go back to this panty thing. Later I can look at the tag. Would the brand name beanyhelp?”
Braht chews a sad bit of egg. “Hmm. Maybe. But I think the design is more important. What sort of woman wears jokey underwear? She probably has eclectic taste. Lives in Eastown, maybe. Collects vinylrecords.”
I see where he’s going with this. His realtor brain is at work. It’s clever, but there’s a problem. “I can’t just go door to door in Eastown, asking if anyone lost a pair of chocolate bunny underwear. I’ll bearrested.”
“Maybe,” he admits. Then he brightens. “I need a consult! I’ll ask for a woman’s opinion.” He pushes his chair away from the table and takes off running. I mean, he takes off like there’s a tsunami coming and he’s trying to get to higherground.
He’s forgotten all about me already. This is just an excuse for him to phone up that realtor lady who doesn’t give him the time of day and breathe heavily into thephone.
His sad little poached egg sits quivering on his plate. I reach over and pop the thing in mymouth.
Not bad. Not badatall.
You can’t blame me. The fucker took off and left me with thecheck.
I can only hope that somehow I get in touch with Brynn. And when I say “get in touch with,” I mean talk to her, take her out, and then touch her all over. With mytongue.
11Look at MySausage
Brynn
I’ve placedthem next to each other, sort of snuggled together. Thick, golden lengths. I tell Sadie to tilt the collapsible reflector until the light bounces off their tight, glistening shafts justrightand—
“For fuck’s sake, Brynn! They’re sausages! You’re taking a picture of meat! This is not high art! Take the picture already so we caneatit!”
Ash has no respect for the intricacies of food photography. The better these sausages look, the more clicks on my site and pins to Pinterest, the more possibility I have of selling one of my cookbooks, the more money I make, the more independent and well-adjustedIfeel.
Also, this week I’m obsessed with sausages. Can’tthinkwhy.
I snap the picture just as Ash lunges and grabs a sausage off the plate, then bites the end offofit.
Bitch.
