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THIRTY FOUR: WET... OR DRY? “What
the fuck do you mean it’s broken? It was fine when they hauled me in here!”
“Shut
your trap” I grimaced as I pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. I thought
hell; I’d be here for a while, might as well make myself comfortable. But I
didn’t even get to take a puff when she ya “What
the f-“ “There
isn’t any ventilation in here, dumb ass” she sneered “Go ring someone” “Why
should I do that?” “Cos
you have a phone, brainiac” I’m
a man. I wasn’t gonna let some woman boss me around. No way, in hell, much
less her. “Go
ring ‘em yourself” “I
don’t have my cell” “Why
the fuck don’t you have yours?” Women. They’re all friggin forgetful,
it’s no wonder half of them are basket cases. “I
just don’t ‘kay?” We
didn’t talk for a while after that. She took her camera and started fiddling
around with it. I knew it was going to happen, but obviously, she didn’t, cos
before she knew it, the champagne on the table tipped. I
watched her react in all the girly ways you’d expect- scream, squeal, and her
personal attribute- curse. But the nerve of her to request- man, just read it. “Gimme
your shirt” she demanded loudly, holding out her hand. What?
Give her my shirt? Was she insane? “You’re
joking right?” “You
can manage without a shirt, I can’t” “It’s
just wet” She
rolled her eyes “I’m wearing a black bra under a white shirt. Now pull it
off-“ “No
way, you ain’t getting’ my shirt” “Can
you stop being an ass for a moment and do something right?” I
contemplated the options; let her have my tank top and freeze, or let her suffer
with a wet shirt. Wet.
White. Enough
said. But then I got a better idea. |
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