successfully than any other domesticated animal except cats and pigs.”
He raises one eyebrow in response to this factoid, and I can’t tell if the look on his face is that of pity or amusement. Then he turns and pulls me along down the trail.
Chapter Five
Oh my god, he is sooo yummy , I think as I watch Roman get out of his car, dressed now in khakis, brown sandals, and a button-up white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His freshly washed hair is still wet, and I tear my eyes away so I can get out of my own car and onto the sidewalk without becoming a pedestrian fatality. Across the street from Kat’s house, joggers, dog-walkers and parents with kids take in the evening air in Denver’s Washington “Wash” Park. Onyx bounds out of the car and streaks for the front door.
“Hey!” says Kat with a big smile from the open doorway. I give her a quick hug. “Hey, Roman!” she says, reaching out to hug him with her other arm. “It’s so good to see you guys!” Come on in…Mitchell says the steaks are almost done.” She hurries back in the direction of the kitchen. “We’re eating on the deck,” she calls over her shoulder.
Kat’s husband, Mitchell, is an anesthesiologist at the hospital by our office, and a former Calvin Klein model. (I mean, can a human being get any closer to perfection?) I decide to forego explaining the black and white, slightly homoerotic photos of Mitchell in tighty-whitey underwear that are hanging on the living room wall, and instead pull him by the hand to the back of the house. We emerge on the deck where Mitchell has just finished removing six thick steaks from an industrial-sized, stainless steel grill.
He hands the plate of steaks to me. I turn back to Roman and am about to introduce the two men when Roman takes charge.
“Hey, Mitchell,” he says, shaking hands with him while I deposit the steaks in the center of the table. “Good to see you again.”
I think for a second and realize that they must have met after the near-fatal foot massacre at the funeral home Friday night. No need to bring up that embarrassing event again.
“Hello, darlings!” comes a voice from behind me.
I frown when I see Kat’s mother-in-law sidle onto the deck. She’s overdressed in a black skirt that is much too short for a sixty-something woman, a spaghetti-strapped silver sequined camisole, and a pair of silver stilettos. But it’s not really her teenage clothing choices that are the problem, or her garish makeup. I can even overlook the leathery, over salon-tanned brownish skin that appears to be melting off at her jaw line. I always tense up when I’m around her, foreseeing how she’ll act when she sees any much younger male of reproductive age. And if she knows that Roman is pseudo-royalty she’ll be unbearable.
“Lydia,” I say through gritted teeth, “this is my friend Roman. Roman, this is Kat’s mother-in-law, Lydia.”
Before Roman can even reach out his hand to shake hers, Lydia sucks in a phlegmy, asthmatic breath and purrs, “Your Highness.” She tucks one ankle behind the other and clenches her thighs in a way that makes me think that she has taken a strong laxative that has suddenly kicked in. Then I realize with horror that this is her attempt at some sort of awkward curtsy.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” she says to Roman, completely ignoring me. “Red or white?”
“Uh, white please,” says Roman, glancing sideways at me. Thrilled to be in the presence of almost-royalty, Lydia grimaces–or smiles, it’s hard to tell–and hurries into the house.
Thankfully, Roman appears highly amused by the whole episode. “Red or white?” he asks.
“Red, please,” I say in a grumpy voice.
“On the prowl,” says Kat of her mother-in-law once Roman is out of earshot.
I look around for Mitchell but he seems to have disappeared into the house. “Aw, c’mon,” I say, sinking into one of the chairs. “There’s
He raises one eyebrow in response to this factoid, and I can’t tell if the look on his face is that of pity or amusement. Then he turns and pulls me along down the trail.
Chapter Five
Oh my god, he is sooo yummy , I think as I watch Roman get out of his car, dressed now in khakis, brown sandals, and a button-up white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His freshly washed hair is still wet, and I tear my eyes away so I can get out of my own car and onto the sidewalk without becoming a pedestrian fatality. Across the street from Kat’s house, joggers, dog-walkers and parents with kids take in the evening air in Denver’s Washington “Wash” Park. Onyx bounds out of the car and streaks for the front door.
“Hey!” says Kat with a big smile from the open doorway. I give her a quick hug. “Hey, Roman!” she says, reaching out to hug him with her other arm. “It’s so good to see you guys!” Come on in…Mitchell says the steaks are almost done.” She hurries back in the direction of the kitchen. “We’re eating on the deck,” she calls over her shoulder.
Kat’s husband, Mitchell, is an anesthesiologist at the hospital by our office, and a former Calvin Klein model. (I mean, can a human being get any closer to perfection?) I decide to forego explaining the black and white, slightly homoerotic photos of Mitchell in tighty-whitey underwear that are hanging on the living room wall, and instead pull him by the hand to the back of the house. We emerge on the deck where Mitchell has just finished removing six thick steaks from an industrial-sized, stainless steel grill.
He hands the plate of steaks to me. I turn back to Roman and am about to introduce the two men when Roman takes charge.
“Hey, Mitchell,” he says, shaking hands with him while I deposit the steaks in the center of the table. “Good to see you again.”
I think for a second and realize that they must have met after the near-fatal foot massacre at the funeral home Friday night. No need to bring up that embarrassing event again.
“Hello, darlings!” comes a voice from behind me.
I frown when I see Kat’s mother-in-law sidle onto the deck. She’s overdressed in a black skirt that is much too short for a sixty-something woman, a spaghetti-strapped silver sequined camisole, and a pair of silver stilettos. But it’s not really her teenage clothing choices that are the problem, or her garish makeup. I can even overlook the leathery, over salon-tanned brownish skin that appears to be melting off at her jaw line. I always tense up when I’m around her, foreseeing how she’ll act when she sees any much younger male of reproductive age. And if she knows that Roman is pseudo-royalty she’ll be unbearable.
“Lydia,” I say through gritted teeth, “this is my friend Roman. Roman, this is Kat’s mother-in-law, Lydia.”
Before Roman can even reach out his hand to shake hers, Lydia sucks in a phlegmy, asthmatic breath and purrs, “Your Highness.” She tucks one ankle behind the other and clenches her thighs in a way that makes me think that she has taken a strong laxative that has suddenly kicked in. Then I realize with horror that this is her attempt at some sort of awkward curtsy.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” she says to Roman, completely ignoring me. “Red or white?”
“Uh, white please,” says Roman, glancing sideways at me. Thrilled to be in the presence of almost-royalty, Lydia grimaces–or smiles, it’s hard to tell–and hurries into the house.
Thankfully, Roman appears highly amused by the whole episode. “Red or white?” he asks.
“Red, please,” I say in a grumpy voice.
“On the prowl,” says Kat of her mother-in-law once Roman is out of earshot.
I look around for Mitchell but he seems to have disappeared into the house. “Aw, c’mon,” I say, sinking into one of the chairs. “There’s
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