doesn’t exactly sound like a candidate for Mr. Right. Or even Mr. Right Now. Maybe you should consider EscapedConvicts.com after all. You might be able to find some guy with a job, even if it’s only working in the prison laundry.”
Abby could feel her temper rising. “ ‘On sabbatical’ is not the same thing as unemployed. He’s also funny and smart and he makes me laugh—something I haven’t felt a whole hell of a lot like doing lately. And I know the Internet can create this false sense of intimacy, but it’s still the weirdest thing. It’s like I can tell him things I can’t tell anybody else. Things I can’t even tell—”
“Your best friend?” Margo interjected wryly.
Abby blew out a sheepish sigh. “He even asked me out on a date for this Friday.”
“Oooh … a tweet-up?” Margo pursed her glossy red lips, actually looking intrigued. “In a public place, I hope … with nine-one-one programmed into your speed dial.”
“Well … it’s not exactly a real date. I’m supposed to meet him on Twitter Friday night at seven o’clock. He’s sort of … well … in Italy right now.”
That confession forced Margo to do the unthinkable. She turned off her treadmill. Before the full forty-five minutes of her workout was over. As the rubber belt slowed to a halt, Abby briefly considered leaping off of her own machine while it was still running and making a desperate dash for the women’s locker room. But she knew she wouldn’t make it past the row of ellipticals before Margo would be on her like a cheetah on a lame gazelle.
Margo stepped off the treadmill and made a brief show of toweling the nonexistent sweat from her throat and chest, no doubt to make Abby feel marginally better about the steady stream of perspiration still trickling between her own breasts. “Honey, I know you haven’t dated a lot of guys since you and Dean broke up, but could you have possibly chosen a more inaccessible man? The only way this guy could be less attainable was if he was still married. Which, for all you know, bless your little heart, he is.”
Abby cringed. If Margo followed up her “bless your little heart” with a “God love you,” Abby was going to end up bleeding to death all over the floor of the gym.
“Look—Dean dumped me over a year ago. Don’t you think it’s time I dipped my toe back into the metaphorical pool?”
“Dean might have turned out to be a cheating scumbag, but at least he was real. This guy is like the Old Spice guy but without the towel and horse. He’s nothing but a fantasy. An empty Armani suit you can fill with whoever you want him to be.”
“Hugh Jackman,” Abby murmured, slowing her own pace to a lethargic walk. “Or Samwise Gamgee.”
“What?”
Abby shook her head. “Nothing.” She sighed, having run out of irrational arguments to counter her friend’s perfectly logical concerns. “I haven’t even decided whether or not I’m going to show up on Friday night. Maybe I should just let the whole thing drop before it gets out of hand and he wants to start naked Skyping or something.”
“Or having tweetsex.”
Abby frowned. “Is it even possible to have sex in a hundred and forty characters or less?”
Margo rolled her eyes. “If you’d dated some of the men I have, you’d know it’s possible to have sex in one hundred forty seconds or less.”
“Ah, speed sex instead of speed dating.” Abby turned off her own treadmill and joined Margo on the floor. “I wish I could introduce the two of you. I think he’d like you.”
Margo slung one lean, sculpted arm around Abby’s shoulder as they made their way toward the women’s locker room. “Just tell him I’m your obligatory sassy but wise African-American best friend and I’ll drop-kick his ass to the moon if he breaks your heart.”
“Should I tell him your name is Chantal or Bon Qui Qui? ‘Margo’ is a little too vanilla, don’t you think?”
“Just tell him I’m Oprah to your
Abby could feel her temper rising. “ ‘On sabbatical’ is not the same thing as unemployed. He’s also funny and smart and he makes me laugh—something I haven’t felt a whole hell of a lot like doing lately. And I know the Internet can create this false sense of intimacy, but it’s still the weirdest thing. It’s like I can tell him things I can’t tell anybody else. Things I can’t even tell—”
“Your best friend?” Margo interjected wryly.
Abby blew out a sheepish sigh. “He even asked me out on a date for this Friday.”
“Oooh … a tweet-up?” Margo pursed her glossy red lips, actually looking intrigued. “In a public place, I hope … with nine-one-one programmed into your speed dial.”
“Well … it’s not exactly a real date. I’m supposed to meet him on Twitter Friday night at seven o’clock. He’s sort of … well … in Italy right now.”
That confession forced Margo to do the unthinkable. She turned off her treadmill. Before the full forty-five minutes of her workout was over. As the rubber belt slowed to a halt, Abby briefly considered leaping off of her own machine while it was still running and making a desperate dash for the women’s locker room. But she knew she wouldn’t make it past the row of ellipticals before Margo would be on her like a cheetah on a lame gazelle.
Margo stepped off the treadmill and made a brief show of toweling the nonexistent sweat from her throat and chest, no doubt to make Abby feel marginally better about the steady stream of perspiration still trickling between her own breasts. “Honey, I know you haven’t dated a lot of guys since you and Dean broke up, but could you have possibly chosen a more inaccessible man? The only way this guy could be less attainable was if he was still married. Which, for all you know, bless your little heart, he is.”
Abby cringed. If Margo followed up her “bless your little heart” with a “God love you,” Abby was going to end up bleeding to death all over the floor of the gym.
“Look—Dean dumped me over a year ago. Don’t you think it’s time I dipped my toe back into the metaphorical pool?”
“Dean might have turned out to be a cheating scumbag, but at least he was real. This guy is like the Old Spice guy but without the towel and horse. He’s nothing but a fantasy. An empty Armani suit you can fill with whoever you want him to be.”
“Hugh Jackman,” Abby murmured, slowing her own pace to a lethargic walk. “Or Samwise Gamgee.”
“What?”
Abby shook her head. “Nothing.” She sighed, having run out of irrational arguments to counter her friend’s perfectly logical concerns. “I haven’t even decided whether or not I’m going to show up on Friday night. Maybe I should just let the whole thing drop before it gets out of hand and he wants to start naked Skyping or something.”
“Or having tweetsex.”
Abby frowned. “Is it even possible to have sex in a hundred and forty characters or less?”
Margo rolled her eyes. “If you’d dated some of the men I have, you’d know it’s possible to have sex in one hundred forty seconds or less.”
“Ah, speed sex instead of speed dating.” Abby turned off her own treadmill and joined Margo on the floor. “I wish I could introduce the two of you. I think he’d like you.”
Margo slung one lean, sculpted arm around Abby’s shoulder as they made their way toward the women’s locker room. “Just tell him I’m your obligatory sassy but wise African-American best friend and I’ll drop-kick his ass to the moon if he breaks your heart.”
“Should I tell him your name is Chantal or Bon Qui Qui? ‘Margo’ is a little too vanilla, don’t you think?”
“Just tell him I’m Oprah to your
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