Fast forward about twenty(ish) years from the day on the wharf when J was labeled a “sexual deviant” for the simple and innocent act of trying to keep the inattentive and tom-boyishly uncouth S’ dress from blow up during a wind gust. In hindsight, the deep shade and electrocuted expression on the poor bastard’s face has become one of J’s most treasured memories; and the mere thought of that specific moment in time is the source of multiple stomach muscle injuries as a result of hardy laughter. But as all things are between S and J, the circumstance was rather damning and getting more difficult by the second for J to navigate a way for it to end peacefully (not that any chance of a peaceful resolution hadn’t been thrown out the window the instant S made the dude’s junk into a necktie, but hey – she had to try).
J pushed the milkshake back over to S and maneuvered the straw into her mouth, seeing as how she was rather “tied up” just then; S took a big drink and let out the proverbial “post-Kool-Aid Ahhhhhhh” but remained like a statue otherwise. The girls both fell to staring at the man next to S at the bar – the man who’s nuts she’d mistakenly manacled as Darth Trump’s;
“You know what, S?”
J suddenly shrieked over the bar;
“I totally see it…”
S’ eyes shot like darts up at her friend’s endeared face as J examined the man’s visage with the intensity of scientist;
“You aren’t just saying that to make me feel better?”
J leaned closer to them;
“Tut Tut; I could’ve easily made the same mistake from behind, I mean look at that rodent carcass on his fat head!”
The man let out a short yelping sound as S and J broke out into maniacal laughter at the expression on his miserable face; and J gave him a exaggerated wink.
“What’s your poison, El Jeffe?”
She asked the question with a blatantly overdone Hispanic accent, juggling a few bottles in front of her cockily.