Page 67 of Hunted, Season Three

“An old shag rug, couple of tacky throw pillows, and a set of orange sheets.”The sound of her flipping to the next section of the magazine is slipped between statements.“None of which matched each other, by the way.”

“Maybe she’s redecorating different rooms?”

“Dono.Dontcare.”She barely pauses.“Now, let’s say youdodecide to have a wedding…”

Amusement over the return to what’s obviously her preferred subject isn’t hidden.

“And let’s say youdodecide to have a bridal party…”

Digging the pen into my skin a little harder is attached to a snigger.

“And let’s say that you wantedmeto be in the bridal party – for the sake of pretend-”

“For the sake of pretend, of course,” I teasingly concur.

“Would you be thinking something likethis,” the thick booklet is once more slid towards my computer, prompting me to view what’s being displayed, “where all the bridesmaids wear the same shit despite our vastly different body types and color pallets or…” she points to the other page, “would you be thinking something likethiswhere it’s one godawful color but at least we can choose the cut?”

Humor remains in my glare as it meets hers.“You always pretended to be the bride never the bridesmaid, didn’t you?”

“Gotta go big or go home, sweetie.”

“No, Igottapee.”Giggles escape us both during my rise to my feet.“Be right back.”

To no surprise, I’m not even six feet away when she calls out, “What kinda cake do you want?!”

A fond memory convinces me to spin on my heels to answer alongside my retreating.“Blue.”

“Like the color blue or the flavor blue?”

“Seriously?!Blue is not a flavor!”

“Sure, it is!”

Warm laughs propel me to shake my head and face forward to finish my trek to the back.

While peeing more often isnotsomething I enjoy – whatsoever – doing it in a clean bathroom – that I didn’t have to help clean – is absolutely appreciated.

Between me and Kipp everything stays pretty tidy.

Towels put away.

Toothpaste rinsed out of the sink.

Empty shampoo bottles removed.

But Mutt?

Mutt’s the problem.

Man cannot aim for shit when he’s too tired or its too dark.

And no matter how much heswearsthe drops of piss that end upnearthe bowl but not in it aren’t his, we all know that they are.

I think it adds to the reason why my ass is hoping for a girl rather than a boy.

He can’t be trusted to teach the little guy how to fucking aim.

Peeing, washing my hands, and drying them take almost no time; however, the momentaloneto debate over the day’s discussion subject is welcomed.

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