March 17th, 1990

March 17th, 1990

At home

It’s almost four am and I just got home from a fun evening at Florence’s! The time flies when we’re together and even as we were saying goodbye, we laughed over the fact there was still “more to tell.” One sign, I think, of a true friend.

After about an hour of our incessant gabbing, Morris excused himself and said he was going upstairs to read.

“Enjoy watching the footie, love,” Florence called out.

“I don’t think he can hear you.”

“Oh, he can hear me alright,” she said, with a mischievous grin.

“Aw, poor Morris, you be nice to him.”

“I’m always nice to him,” she smiled. “C’mon, let’s get another drink and you can fill me in on your gossip.”

We replenished our rum and cokes in the kitchen and carefully carried the amply filled glasses into the living room.

“I know that look,” Florence said. “What is it you want to tell me?”

“Is it that obvious?”

She nodded and took a sip of her drink. “Ooh, that’s strong,” she said, licking her lips.

“I slept with Ben last night.”

Florence covered her face with her hands and let out a deep guttural sound of disapproval. “Ooh,  Karen, ooh, Karen,” she cooed, in a way that made me laugh.

“I know, I know,” I uttered.

“You’re a lost cause when it comes to him.”

“Yes, I am,” I declared.

“Come outside with me love, I need a ciggie for this.”

A blast of cool air hit us the second Florence opened the back door.

“Are you sure you need a cigarette?”
“I’ll just be a mo,” she said, lighting up.

“Argh,” I sputtered, folding my arms tightly across my chest. “I hate the cold.”

“Go inside love, I won’t be long.”

“Nah, it’s ok, I’ll stay out here with you.”

“You’re a good mate,” she smiled. “And a sensible girl, except for when it comes to that bad boy, Ben.”

“What can I say?” I shrugged, watching a plume of smoke rise above our heads.

“At least you don’t smoke,” she laughed, taking another puff.

“Obviously I have other vices.”

“I don’t mean to be crude, love, but it must be good, you know, otherwise you wouldn’t…”

“It’s better than good,” I sighed. “So, so, much better than good.”

“He’s not exactly being a good fiancé though, is he?”

“Not at all.”

“I think he should call off his moronic engagement to, what’s her name again?”

“Mandy. She’s not even speaking to him.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“She’s still upset that he’s applying to airlines.”

“He’s what?”

“Oh sorry, I forgot to tell you, he already interviewed with Virgin Atlantic.”

“I might need another ciggie for this. Go inside if you want,” she said, waving her hand.

“I’m alright, have another one. Hopefully Virgin will take him, otherwise he’ll apply to British Airways.”

Florence took a lengthy puff then tilted her head back as she slowly exhaled. “Oh my! I can only imagine what you two would get up to working together on a flight.”

“Mile high all the way baby,” I blurted, clearly the effect of too much rum.

“Oh stop it,” she chuckled. “You’re making me feel like an old fogey.”

“You most certainly are not an old fogey.”

“Cheers for saying that,” she said, clinking her glass to mine.

“Cheers,” I said. “You old fuddy duddy!”

 

 

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