My Best Man by Andy Schell (top 10 novels TXT) 📕

Amity smiles. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather have from you, babe.”

Kiki brings an open magnum, pours, and hands us the crystal glasses. “Do you like these glasses? They’re available in the store. Many of our couples list them so that they can remember this special day.” Special die.

“Very nice,” Amity says. “Who makes them?”

“Baccarat,” Kiki answers, seating herself on the edge of a chair across from us.

“I’m a Lalique girl,” Amity says, no apology.

“Of course,” Kiki says. “You look Lalique to me.”

I notice another couple, who appear to be concluding their meeting standing not ten feet away with their own sales-package woman, who is shaking their hands carefully so she won’t break a nail, lest antifreeze ooze from the breaking point. The guy, who looks miserable, gives me a sympathetic nod. I nod back, even give a little wave of camaraderie. What’s a straight guy to do? This is only a game. This is only a game. This is … “Let’s start with bedding,” the sales package says. She’s sitting so far out on the edge of her chair, I’m sure she’s going to fall off and break, and I’d hate to see that happen because she’s quite possibly the mother of a little girl who looks just like her. “Often our focus in the first stages of marriage is in the bedroom,” she adds, trying to give a folksy wink. She doesn’t pull it off, but I offer her a laugh to help her along. “Do you have any desire for linens, comforters, bedspreads?”

“Ralph Lauren all the way,” Amity dictates swiftly.

I have a feeling that Kiki is the kind of woman who has inter course standing up. So she doesn’t mess up her hair. I don’t blame her-. it’s a masterpiece. More curves than Central Expressway, but much better planned. “I like your hair,” I say.

“Why, thank you,” she says, nodding pleasantly. “I style it myself.”

“Good job.”

“You’re so sweet.” She looks at Amity. “You’ve landed your self quite a gentleman.”

“I certainly have,” Amity answers. “If more of us gals married gay guys, we’d all be a lot happier.”

“Aw, shucks,” I say, smiling at Amity.

Kiki’s face freezes with a deer-in-the-headlights look. Then she

glances back at her printed forms and hastily asks, “Do you have specific needs in the bedroom?” She’s instantly horrified by her timing.

Amity growls sexily, “Are you reading off the form? Or is that an open-ended question, darling’?”

Kiki holds up the form and points to the question. “Right here on the list.”

“Just put us down for everything,” Amity giggles.

“Of course,” the woman answers, nervously making a note.

“Does this go into a computer or something?” I ask, trying to smooth her out.

“Yes, Mr. Ford. You and your bride will get a computerized printout of everything you’ve listed, as well as a final printout of everything purchased,” she answers.

I nibble a sassy little cucumber and red pepper sandwich from the tray on the table in front of us, look at Amity, try not to laugh. “Let’s move into the kitchen,” Kiki suggests. “Together?” I ask. She doesn’t get it.

“Yes,” Amity says. “Harry and I aren’t like those couples who focus on the bedroom. We like to focus on the kitchen.”

“How marvelous,” Kiki says, breathing a sigh of relief. “Do you both like to cook?”

“Heavens, no. We’re horrible cooks. We use the kitchen for sex!”

Here she goes , shaken not stirred.

Kiki looks pained. She smiles a forced smile. “There’s a place for everything,” she says, trying to be a good sport.

“That’s the trouble. There isn’t. We need a big ole chopping block for Harry to lay me out on.”

“Maxwell-Grey has them. We’ll put it on the list,” she says, refusing to be offended.

Amity leans forward so that both she and the sales package are

on the edge of their seats. “And a sterling silver garlic press,” she whispers. “It’s nothing but a fancy nipple clamp, darling’. You’ve got to try it.”

“Great. Thank you,” Kiki answers as if Amity has shared a stock tip.

I’m slamming my champagne. Looking around. Anything to keep from laughing.

“Oh! And a food processor! We definitely need one of those.” The saleswoman, assuming there’s a catch, doesn’t write. Amity looks blankly at her. “For processing.” Kiki looks relieved.

” “Course, you’ve got to be careful what you put in those things,” Amity adds. “After all, one little pureed weenie and there goes the marriage.”

The woman finally stiffens, loses her grace. “I suppose.” Amity sings a Tammy Wynette hybrid:

DIVORCE

That’s what pureed weenie means to me.

I’m spitting champagne through my nose. Amity’s smiling. And Kiki is sliding back in her chair. Giving up.

“Look. Just put us down for everything,” I say, using my little cocktail napkin to wipe my nose. “My mother will probably buy it all anyway.”

Kiki Cartwright slides right back out to the edge of her chair, fully rejuvenated. “Yes, Mr. Ford!”

FIFTEEN

Amity has this thing about first dates. She prefers they be brunch or lunch. You can much easier steal yourself away from lunch than dinner in case the date turns out to be a nightmare. Nawtmayor She suggests we invite the waiter boys over for brunch and make nasty fruit plates.

“Nasty fruit plates, Harry! We slice the bacon into pieces and fry them up until they’re nice and curly. Then we cut a banana in half, lengthwise, and lay it on the plate. Two big round slices of kiwi underneath, and you’ve got a nasty fruit plate!”

We sip champagne and take hits off the bong while we fry the bacon in the kitchen. It’s only 10:00 in the morning and we’re getting looped. After the bacon is fried, I slice the bananas down the middle and Amity peels the kiwi.

It isn’t until we fix them up, on four different plates, that I see the curly bacon is pubic hair, the banana is a big penis, and the kiwi slices are testicles.

“Just look at those bad boys!” Amity squeals, referring to our creations. “Now, the finishing touch.” She takes the