“You sure had a good time staring down Pam’s dress,” Margaret said with a saber’s edge on the words. “Not that you had to. Her breasts were mostly hanging out.” She pointed the silver blade my way. “And this wasn’t the first time.” Her eyes shot daggers my way. I bowed my head in penance, keeping one eye on the butcher knife in her left hand.
“So were yours,” I said. “I looked at them a lot more than I did Pam’s.”
Margaret paced back and forth across the kitchen, mumbling. Leftover dishes from my surprise birthday party crowded the sink and counters.
I sat on a stool wearing only a pair of briefs. Margaret’s demand. It was that or live without a favorite body part. I reminded her it was a favorite of hers, too. She replied she could get a dozen at any nearby establishment that sold adult beverages.
“Did you try the peach pie?” I asked. “It was very good. Made it myself.”
“Buffalo pucks, you did. You couldn’t cook your way out of a McDonald’s.”
“Well. . .I added my special ingredient.” She stared at the pie, her head cocked to one side, an incredulous look on her face. “Did you notice how everyone who ate the pie loosened up. That was the uppers I put in each piece.” I smiled the smile that usually melted her when she got grumpy.
“You put what in the pie?”
Out of desperation, I smiled big enough to make my face hurt. No change.
Man part, pie, smile. All no. I’m screwed!
