We make Lean Cuisine Spa Classics. Kenzi eats Toni's after Toni complains about the texture of the pumpkin ravioli. We've been watching a gay man's Youtube channel of cats sneezing for most of the afternoon. Kenzi's car won't start. This is after the GFE, upstairs. Thank God Emerz' parents are in China; Kenzi was loud, an over-the-top attempt to mask her contempt. I've never liked that. Emerz and Toni seemed annoyed when we came down the stairs, but Kenzi and Toni have been at it all day, like a rabbit and a snapping turtle caged up together, sharing the same water bottle and pellet tray; Toni's red-eyed stares and Kenzi's rough neck and darting tongue.
The GFE, well, short on the cuddling, if I was to write a review. You pay for the cuddling more than anything else. One hundred dollars worth of cuddling, with an amateur, I would say buys you four to six minutes. Kenzi shrugged out from under my arm after maybe two-and-a-half, and then its off to the bathroom: Scalding hot shower, knees to the chest, rocking back and forth. What else is new. I'm doing the same thing, only in the master bath, with the Jacuzzi jets and Epsom salts. Kenzi doesn't know what she's missing, for once.
It's only after the tow truck arrives and we wave good-bye from Emerz' drive-way that my blood pricks a bit. Like, what did I expect? It happens all of a sudden even though Toni says finally. She's exhausted, brushing the buttery pages of my Men's Vogue with a credit card, looking to salvage the rest of the night. Emerz locks the door.
"Leave it open," I say. "Just in case she needs to come back." Emerz tosses me a bottle of preemptive penicillin and double-bolts it.
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