in a resigned voice. “What’s the name?”
“Lars Anderson,” I said, spelling it for him. “He runs a karate studio in Laurel. I think he’s a naturalized U.S. citizen from Sweden.”
“A karate instructor? You sure know how to pick ’em, sis.”
“I’m not going to date him,” I insisted.
“Yeah, whatever. You now owe me big.”
I wished people would stop saying that to me because it had started to be the story of my life. “Thanks for being so accommodating, Beau.”
“Just a public servant at work, ma’am.”
I cringed. I’d been called “ma’am” twice in one day and it stunk. “Glad to hear my tax dollars are hard at work.”
Beau snorted. “I’ll call you when I’ve got something.”
“Thanks, bro,” I said and hung up.
I wandered back to my bedroom and surveyed the mess. Beefy was right. My apartment was a pigsty. I needed to clean it up big time. But even more pressing, I had to do laundry or I wouldn’t have anything to wear tonight to meet with Finn nor to wear to work tomorrow. But I didn’t have any quarters and I really didn’t have the desire to sit in the laundry room for two hours waiting for the cycles to complete. That left only one dreaded option.
Shopping.
I was so going to make Basia pay for all of this when I found her. I grabbed my bag, set the alarm and went out to my car. I drove to the mall, fretting that I’d have to use my already maxed-out credit card for any purchases.
Once there, my first order of business was to buy a cinnamon sugar pretzel and a large ice tea with extra ice. I sat on a bench and watched shoppers go up and down the escalator. At one point, a toddler escaped from his mother’s hand and made a dash for the up escalator. In a move worthy of a gold medal at the Olympics, the mother did an amazing long jump and grabbed his arm just before he started up.
After I’d drunk the tea, sucked on the lemon and licked all the sugar from my fingers, the inevitable had arrived. I had to buy some clean clothes. I threw my stuff in the trash and headed for the first clothing store I saw. Better start with the necessities like a new bra and some underwear. I found the lingerie section and wandered through the racks. I found a pack of white cotton briefs on sale, three to a pack, and picked them up. I heard a disapproving voice over my shoulder.
“Men prefer something prettier and sexier,” she said.
I turned to see a saleswoman frowning at me. She was middle-aged with short dark hair and black-framed glasses. She was dressed in a navy blue schoolmarm-type dress with a high neck and lace collar. I thought it odd that of all people, she would know what men liked. On the other hand, she worked in the lingerie department and that had to mean something. Her gold store nametag read Norma Jensen.
Not that I had a man to impress, but I was open for suggestions. “What did you have in mind?” I asked.
She smiled and turned, walking to a nearby rack. “This,” she said. There were rows of silk and satin, most of it barely scraps of material.
“I can’t wear something like that,” I said, scandalized.
The frown returned to her face. “Of course, you can, dear,” she said, studying my form. “You’re young and men go wild over thongs.”
I liked the part about men going wild, so I lifted up a blood-red thong and peered at it.
“Which way is the front?” I finally asked.
She turned the material around. “This way.”
I studied it harder. “How can you tell? It’s just string.”
“Exactly.”
Uncertain, I hesitated. “Won’t it be uncomfortable?”
“Oh, no,” she assured me. “They are so lightweight, it will feel like you aren’t wearing anything.”
I wouldn’t be wearing anything if I had these panties on, but I figured she was a trained professional, so she knew what she was talking about. I’m not sure how, but she talked me into trying them on over my briefs. The thong wedged right into my behind while a little
“Lars Anderson,” I said, spelling it for him. “He runs a karate studio in Laurel. I think he’s a naturalized U.S. citizen from Sweden.”
“A karate instructor? You sure know how to pick ’em, sis.”
“I’m not going to date him,” I insisted.
“Yeah, whatever. You now owe me big.”
I wished people would stop saying that to me because it had started to be the story of my life. “Thanks for being so accommodating, Beau.”
“Just a public servant at work, ma’am.”
I cringed. I’d been called “ma’am” twice in one day and it stunk. “Glad to hear my tax dollars are hard at work.”
Beau snorted. “I’ll call you when I’ve got something.”
“Thanks, bro,” I said and hung up.
I wandered back to my bedroom and surveyed the mess. Beefy was right. My apartment was a pigsty. I needed to clean it up big time. But even more pressing, I had to do laundry or I wouldn’t have anything to wear tonight to meet with Finn nor to wear to work tomorrow. But I didn’t have any quarters and I really didn’t have the desire to sit in the laundry room for two hours waiting for the cycles to complete. That left only one dreaded option.
Shopping.
I was so going to make Basia pay for all of this when I found her. I grabbed my bag, set the alarm and went out to my car. I drove to the mall, fretting that I’d have to use my already maxed-out credit card for any purchases.
Once there, my first order of business was to buy a cinnamon sugar pretzel and a large ice tea with extra ice. I sat on a bench and watched shoppers go up and down the escalator. At one point, a toddler escaped from his mother’s hand and made a dash for the up escalator. In a move worthy of a gold medal at the Olympics, the mother did an amazing long jump and grabbed his arm just before he started up.
After I’d drunk the tea, sucked on the lemon and licked all the sugar from my fingers, the inevitable had arrived. I had to buy some clean clothes. I threw my stuff in the trash and headed for the first clothing store I saw. Better start with the necessities like a new bra and some underwear. I found the lingerie section and wandered through the racks. I found a pack of white cotton briefs on sale, three to a pack, and picked them up. I heard a disapproving voice over my shoulder.
“Men prefer something prettier and sexier,” she said.
I turned to see a saleswoman frowning at me. She was middle-aged with short dark hair and black-framed glasses. She was dressed in a navy blue schoolmarm-type dress with a high neck and lace collar. I thought it odd that of all people, she would know what men liked. On the other hand, she worked in the lingerie department and that had to mean something. Her gold store nametag read Norma Jensen.
Not that I had a man to impress, but I was open for suggestions. “What did you have in mind?” I asked.
She smiled and turned, walking to a nearby rack. “This,” she said. There were rows of silk and satin, most of it barely scraps of material.
“I can’t wear something like that,” I said, scandalized.
The frown returned to her face. “Of course, you can, dear,” she said, studying my form. “You’re young and men go wild over thongs.”
I liked the part about men going wild, so I lifted up a blood-red thong and peered at it.
“Which way is the front?” I finally asked.
She turned the material around. “This way.”
I studied it harder. “How can you tell? It’s just string.”
“Exactly.”
Uncertain, I hesitated. “Won’t it be uncomfortable?”
“Oh, no,” she assured me. “They are so lightweight, it will feel like you aren’t wearing anything.”
I wouldn’t be wearing anything if I had these panties on, but I figured she was a trained professional, so she knew what she was talking about. I’m not sure how, but she talked me into trying them on over my briefs. The thong wedged right into my behind while a little
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