Full Package by Lauren Blakely

toilet paper. Maybe that’s selfish, but so it goes.
    â€œWell, he is a lucky son-of-a-bitch to see you in that dress.”
    She fiddles with a necklace. “I can’t get this clasp. Can you help? My fingers are still slippery from putting on lotion.”
    I stand, brush my hands over my jeans, and step closer to her. She gathers up her hair, lifting it against the back of her head, exposing her neck. My throat goes dry. My skin prickles with desire. Her long, lovely neck looks spectacular. Prime real estate for kissing.
    But I can’t go there, so I take hold of the ends of the necklace, and though I toy with the idea of taking longer than necessary, I opt for being a gentleman. I close the keyhole quickly. As much as I might want to linger here all night, I can’t give myself away.
    â€œThere,” I say, and as she lowers her hair, I hope to hell Paul won’t be the one unhooking that clasp tonight. As soon as that awful notion touches down, I ball my hands into fists, and I try to keep this jealousy at bay.
    I hope she hates the guy. Because there’s no way any man could be with her tonight and do anything but fall head over heels.
    I leave shortly after she does. Lest I stay home like a dateless schmuck on a Friday night, I asked out a blond radiologist named Trish who likes to play fantasy baseball. I’m a big Yankees fan myself, so that gives us great conversation beyond the shop talk. At a sports bar nearby, we nurse beers and watch a game on the big screen, debating the best pitchers in baseball history. It’s fine as far as dates go, but when it’s time for that inevitable will we/won’t we moment, I don’t feel it, so I say good-bye to her.
    As I wander through the streets of Murray Hill, listening to an audiobook about physics in everyday life while sidestepping the already inebriated packs of New Yorkers, I find that I’m looking forward to talking to Josie, way more than I’d wanted to go on a date, and hoping too that Paul was a bust.
    When I open the door, the scent of seven-layer bars greets me. That must mean her date ended early, too. Which means I’m a happy camper.
    I turn into the kitchen. She pulls a tray from the oven and smiles. She still wears the date outfit, but the heels are gone. She’s adorable in her fancy dress and bare feet.
    â€œDate ended early?”
    She nods. “When he invited me to see his gerbil, I thought it was time to go.”
    â€œThat doesn’t entice you?”
    She shakes her head. “Had he said ferret, perhaps. Alas, with gerbil I’m a firm no.”
    â€œWas it in his pants or a cage?”
    â€œWe didn’t get far enough to find out. I said thanks, I need to water the plants, and I got the hell out of Dodge.”
    I curl up the side of my mouth. “Guess that explains why Trish didn’t invite me home, either. I tried the hamster line on her.”
    She smacks me with a panda potholder. “I suppose I should have known better, though. Earlier in the date, he made a ton of masturbation comments.”
    I lean against the kitchen counter. “And that concerns you, since you never do that, right?”
    As she slides the spatula under the dessert, she gives me a side-eye stare. “Exactly, Chase. I never rub one out. Never.” She waves a hand over her crotch. “Total hands-free zone.”
    I take her comment seriously. “Fine. You use toys. I get it. What kind?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.
    She rolls her eyes. “Not telling you.”
    I harrumph and grab for a bar from the pan. She swats me with the spatula.
    â€œOuch,” I say, yanking back my hand.
    â€œThat didn’t hurt. And you should know better than to steal my dessert before it’s ready.”
    â€œYou should know better than to hit my hands.” I hold both up in the air.
    With a quickness I don’t see coming, she whacks me again with her utensil. This