Tina couldn’t just reach into the tackle
box where she kept her beauty potions. She had to give me the academia behind
image.
“They say put your best face forward. It’s
true,” she said. “I mean, do you want to score Matt or not?”
I pictured myself winning him in a game,
poker maybe, or something more physical like badminton. Matt as prize, Matt as
reward. All you needed to forfeit was your pride.
“You make it sound like a fucking lottery
ticket. He’s not a Scratcher, you know.”
“He’s a dude,” she said. “He might as well
be.”
I hopped up on the granite countertop and
swung my feet against her bleached-wood cabinets. I didn’t know dick about home
design, but I did know that the 1990s called and were demanding their elements
back.
“Anyway,” I said.
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