I drove to the newspaper office around 7 o’clock and met Lucy in the lobby. She was sitting on a sofa placed there for visitors, reading text messages on her phone and holding a thick file folder full of papers. She was wearing a short brown corduroy skirt the color of a Hershey Bar, a tan turtleneck sweater with the sleeves pushed up on her arms and a pair of dark brown shoes with a three-inch heel that made her taller, but still short. Her long black hair was parted in the middle and swirled perfectly around her head and shoulders, and she was once again wearing a whole bunch of necklaces of varying lengths.
I was dressed in casual gray slacks, a bright red t-shirt with a white Aerosmith logo on the front and my badly worn leather bomber jacket. The gray slacks had been hiding in the back of my closet for months, and I liberated them so Lucy wouldn’t think I was living on the street. As for the shirt and jacket—well, I’ll only go so far as a slave to fashion.
We went for Chinese this time and Lucy told me about her geek friend Simpkins, who thought she was Chinese and not Korean. “You know us slants,” she said, mockingly referring to her Asian eyes. “We all look alike.”
“You look perfect to me,” I said. “Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Outer Mongolian, who cares. You could be from Jupiter as far as I’m concerned.”
“Well, thanks for saying Jupiter and not Uranus,” Lucy said.
“The thought did cross my mind,” I confessed. “I love yours.”
“My anus?”
“Your rings.”
“That’s Saturn.”
“Them, too.”
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