For a woman who routinely states that she doesn't go in for comfort food and hates treats because she doesn't want to have to exercise, Lucy really seems to know her junk food. This scene is really just to give Lucy a little victory and because I wanted to drag out the day a bit more. It's a pretty slow section, and it doesn't really add much except as breather space before we get into the last day and then the main event.
As always, fiction is below the fold, and the table of contents is here. Expect erratic posting until April as moving and PAX happen. Here's your reminder: Are you going to PAX? If you are and want to try and meet for a game of something, let me know.
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Waffles would have been great. I love waffles. I like how each individual square is sized just right for the amount of syrup it is supposed to hold. It would be like if everyone had Chick-fil-a potato squares instead of French fries that are just a giant mess. Also, if everyone had peppermint shakes like Chick-fil-a. And were opened Sundays.
What I was trying to say is that I like waffles. I like waffles with Roger. He tells dirty stories that his wife would never let him tell around the house, and then before you know it, all the waffles are gone. But, tonight he decided to invite Jon. Even when I made it clear he should not invite Jon, namely by saying: “I think Jon has other things he needs to do tonight besides eat waffles.”
Then Jon had said: “Not really. I should spend more time with the technical people, don’t you think Lucy?”
I said no, but Roger said yes. It was like when the boss comes to happy hour. Which I don’t know how that is, but Christine tells me it sucks. I got there a few minutes late, hoping to let that be a testament to my displeasure. Also, it gave me time to better hide the puppets. I buried them under some of my spare sweaters and jackets I kept in the back of my car. They just sort of piled up there; I think they were breeding.
When I got in, Roger, Tanya and Jon were already seated at a booth. I don’t even remember us inviting her. She was wearing an ugly blue dress that she thought looked good on camera. Roger had told me, as an aside, that it showed enough leg that no one cared what color it was. I told him our target demographic wasn’t men; he told me our target demographic was “anyone who is still awake.”
I slid in next to Roger and handed him back the menu. “I know what I want.”
“At least look at the menu for a moment. It’s sort of a formality.”
“I want my cinnamon toast waffles. When they see my car pull in, they start making them. I only want cinnamon toast waffles. With whipped cream.”
“The lady knows what she wants,” Jon said. “I like that in a woman.”
“The only thing you like in a woman is yourself,” Roger said. I couldn’t help but smile; Roger saw no need for deference outside the office.
Tanya changed the topic to the weather. Jon’s foot touched mine under the table; I kicked him. I squeaked a bit when he kicked me back, because it hurt. A lot. Roger raised an eyebrow, but went on droning about how, yes, it has been unseasonably cold. “I moved to California and was promised sun and surf,” Tanya said. “The state is holding back on its end of the bargain.”
Jon smiled at me again, “Maybe we should start my speech talking about the weather, what do you think?”
“It isn’t the worst idea you’ve had for it,” I said kicking him again; but then I tucked my feet up under me before he could kick back. It was the little wins that I could hold in my heart. The little wins and cinnamon toast waffles.