Page 57 of Friendshipped
“Uh. Yes. Well, the shipment I got was full of thongs. I ordered tongs. Salad tongs.”
Er-er-errrrrew.
“You don’t like your thongs, ma’am?” the polite man asks.
“I didn’t …” er-er-errrrrrew “… uh, I didn’t order thongs. I ordered tongs.”
Er-er-errrrrrrew, the rooster continues, obviously irritated that this polite man wants to solve my tong-thong dilemma.
“Oh, yes ma’am. Tongs. You don’t want the tongs?”
“No, I want …” er-er-errrrrrrrew “… the tongs. Just not the thongs. I can’t wear the thongs, you see. But I do want to mix dressing with my lettuce.”
Er-er-errrrrrrrew.
“Yes ma’am. Salad. A good, healthy choice. I understand ma’am. Give me a minute so we can resolve this concern.”
He puts me on hold while some synthesized music from the seventies comes on, obviously intended to hypnotize me into not caring whether I have thongs or tongs or whether my customer service experience has a definitive barnyard element.
I put the phone on speaker.
Just then, Chase walks into my cubicle. “Great choice in tunes, Lexi,” he says with a smirk.
And, as if things couldn’t get more embarrassing, the polite representative comes on my phone and says, “Yes, ma’am I see here your order of ten thongs.”
Chase’s eyebrows lift. My face turns the invariable shade of red reserved for poinsettias and stop signs. And then the rooster crows one last er-er-errrrrrew to cap off my epic humiliation.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt into the phone. “You’ve got the wrong number.”
I rapidly click the receiver onto the cradle and stand, “If you’ll excuse me, Chase, I have to run an errand.”
I hear his chuckle behind me as I flee down the aisle of our office without my purse or keys to hole myself up in the women’s restroom until I think the coast is clear and I can make my way back to hide the rest of the day in my cubicle until Trevor drives me home.
* * *
I drivemyself to Wu’s house of noodles. With as many epic date fails as I’ve had, I’ve learned driving myself could mean the difference between a narrow escape and a dreaded end of the date scene where I frantically scramble for my keys while my date tries to impersonate the Loch Ness monster in heat.
Trevor and I now call that guy Nessie. Trevor does a great brogue when he says it too.
I lock my car, smooth my skirt, rub my lips together and gird myself to meet Joshua in person. On the phone he seemed polite and intelligent. His line of work—or, at least the one he’s claiming—is physical therapy. He said he likes reading and cycling. That sounds normal enough. He’s probably not a serial killer, but I have pepper spray just in case.
As I walk toward the restaurant entrance, I see him waving. He’s slim and tall, wearing a t-shirt under a casual sports coat, jeans and Converse. So far so good.
“Lexi?”
I nod.
He points a finger at his chest, “Joshua. You look stunning.”
His eyes slowly take me in from my three-inch heels to the top of my head and back down again. I feel like I’m being appraised for auction.
“Thank you,” I say feeling a little overwhelmed by his perusal.
“Shall we?”
He extends the crook of his arm as though we’re walking up the aisle at a wedding. I reluctantly accept his gesture, placing my hand below his bicep.
“Did you know the loose skin at the back of your elbow is called your wenis?” he asks.
