Milkrun by Sarah Mlynowski Page A

party.”
    â€œSeems fair. But you still have to be my maid of honor. If I ever have time to date again, that is.” Wendy has been unwillingly practicing abstinence since she started her job.
    â€œOf course I’ll be your maid of honor! I’ve already written my maid of honor speech,” I tell her. Well, not all of it. But sometimes really funny things happen, and if I don’t write them down right away, I’ll never remember everything I should have said and then…fine. I’m a geek.
    â€œI’m sure you have. So, who’s the future Mr. Norris?”
    I pause for effect. “Jonathan Gradinger.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard me.”
    â€œMy God! Where did you see him? Are you sure it wasn’t a dream?”
    â€œYes, I’m sure.” It wasn’t a dream. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a dream. Was it a dream? I look around my room for evidence of the Orgasm excursion. My black skirt is lying on the floor where I dropped it last night. I grab it. It smells like smoke and Sex on the Beach. P-hew.
    â€œHow did that happen?” she asks.
    â€œHe saw me at the bar.” I leave out how that came about. “We talked. He asked me for my number.”
    â€œThat’s amazing! Is he still a fox?”
    â€œOf course. Maybe not the fox, but still foxy.”
    â€œHas he called yet?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œOh.”
    Oh? What does she mean, oh? “He wouldn’t have, Wen. What guy calls the next morning? He’ll probably call tomorrow night. At 8:30. After The Simpsons .”
    â€œNot if he wants to go out tonight.”
    â€œHe’s not going to ask me out for tonight.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause then he would look desperate. Trust me, Wen, that’s not the way the game is played.” Dear sweet Wendy. Dear sweet, naive Wendy.
    â€œHow do you know how the game is played? You’ve been on the dating scene for one day.”
    Hey, I can remember L.B.J. (Life Before Jer). I did have a life, you know. “He’ll call me on Sunday and ask me out for Tuesday, so he can see me on Tuesday and ask me out for next Saturday. See?”
    â€œI see. Where do you think he’ll take you?”
    â€œOn Tuesday or Saturday?”
    Wendy doesn’t answer. I can tell that all this is getting a little too complicated for her. Not dating in over a year has started to melt her brain.
    â€œSherri Burns is going to die,” she says.
    â€œI know! Isn’t it wonderful?”
    â€œWould she ever find out? Besides by reading the wedding announcement in the Times, of course.”
    â€œI was thinking of taking a picture on our date and posting it on the Stapley Internet site.”
    â€œNot a bad plan. Uh-oh. I have a meeting. Gotta go.”
    â€œA meeting? Who else is in the office on Saturday?”
    â€œWho’s not in the office?”
    â€œPoor you. You sure you don’t want a normal job?”
    â€œI am far from sure. We’ll chat later.”
    â€œBye.”
    What should I do now? Probably get up. It’s already two.
    â€œHello?” I call from my bed. “Anyone home?”
    â€œHi!” Sam hollers. “I’m cleaning the bathroom.” I’m pretty sure she cleans her bathroom every day. I’ve seen her sneak into the bathroom with disinfectant after a guest uses it. She’s just as psycho with the fridge. She has a bit of an expiry fetish. She spills out her milk exactly three days after it’s been opened. It doesn’t matter what the expiration date says, either. For some reason I can’t seem to convince her that the expiration date refers to the date you buy the stuff, not when you have to throw it out. “You’re not really going to eat that?” she asked me yesterday, staring in disgust at my six-day-old package of sliced turkey. Um…I was. If I did things Sam’s way, everything I own would be in the