For my darling, Kay, who continually caused me to piss my pants.
Kay was my crazy partner in crime.
We were sort of like Lucy & Ethel. No, more like Laurel and Hardy. Yeah, that kind of crazy.
She’d assert I was the bad sister, the naughty sister, but that’s only partly true. In reality, I was the dependable sister whereas Kay was 40 going on 20. And even though she was super model striking, she had a gigantic issue about growing older. For example, she incessantly lied about her true age.
“I’m 27-years-old,” she’d say to acquaintances and co-workers without wavering.
During one of our sister dates at Grandmas’ Sports Garden, a dude resembling Antonio Banderas happened to be our waiter. You know Antonio, no?
Desperado. Interview with a Vampire. Zorro. Puss in Boots. Melanie Griffith. Hot.
Yeah, that’s the one.
So, here comes Antonio with his saucy, sexy, seductive self to take our orders. Needless to say, we’re giggling like 14-year-old school girls.
Kay nudges me, “Oh, isn’t he gorgeous? Isn’t he something? Did you notice those big brown eyes, that beautiful tan?”
“And he’s young enough to be our—”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Kimmie,” she hisses. “Don’t ruin it.”
“What would you like, ladies?” Antonio smiles.
Unbelievable, he doesn’t have a Spanish accent. I’m a bit disenchanted.
Oh, well. You can’t have everything. Somebody who looks like that needn’t speak; he simply needs to be.
His teeth, I swear to God, are gleaming white rows of pearls. His skin is milk chocolate. The Dove kind. The young kind. The licking kind. And he has this luscious black ponytail surging down his back like dark water.
Want to go swimming?
Kay is batting her eyes like one of those cartoon characters with oversized lashes.
I’m absolutely positive Antonio is used to this sort of ridiculous behavior by females.
Beautiful people cause ordinary people to squirm in their chairs.
“Um, let’s see, I’ll take a Caesar salad with extra dressing on the side,” Kay purrs. “Oh, and let’s split Louisiana chicken wings, Kimmie.”
Then we both lift our heads to gaze at him.
He’s a tower above us. A chiseled stature. The mythical god, Himeros.
We gazed at his flawlessness for a long time.
“Ma’am,” he says, glancing at Kay. “I knew I recognized you.”
Kay is still batting her Betty Boop lashes, locking her brown eyes into his brown eyes.
“I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, “Doesn’t that drive you crazy, you know, when you can’t remember a pretty face?”
“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.” Kay tosses her hair back, rubs her raspberry lips together.
“Well, anyhow, a light bulb went off, and I’m like, I know that lady.”
“You do?” Kay slowly hums, eyelashes batting once again.
“Yeah. I went to middle school with your son, Jordan.”
Image credit: © Depositphotos.com/lightwavemedia