Pretty Ironic

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So when Sandwich grills me on the subject for a second timeCC Image courtesy of snapperwolf* on Flickr

‘How come Freddie isn’t with us?’ he says.

I shrug.  ‘Oh he came in a different party.’

‘Oh.  But I thought you were great friends?’

‘Yeah, well-.’

I break off to pass someone the butter, before turning back to him.

‘We don’t always go in the same party.’

‘Oh.’  He looks puzzled.  ‘Do you see him much, outside of dancing?’

‘No, not really.’

It’s the truth.

‘You don’t meet up for coffee – or drinks?’

Or casual sex?

‘No!’  I frown.  ‘Why are you asking?!’

He remains poker-faced.

‘Oh I just wond– .’

At this moment, Freddie appears, and claps us both on the shoulder.

‘Hullo chaps!’

He says things like ‘chaps’, but he’s pretty, so he gets away with it.

‘Hello!’ I say, smiling up at him.  We kiss on the cheeks.

Freddie looks from me to Sandwich and back, eyes twinkling.  ‘How are you both?’

Sandwich looks happy enough.

‘Good, thanks,’ I say.  ‘You?’

Freddie nods fervently.  ‘Yuh.  Really good.’

He says ‘yuh’ too: he’s really pretty. 

‘Are you having a good evening?’ he says.

Sandwich smiles his approbation; he’s not a big talker.

‘Yes!’  I say. 

Trying to convince Sandwich we don’t have casual sex.  More’s the pity. 

CC Image courtesy of Velvet Twerp on Flickr



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