A. C. Peterson
"Oh yeah?" you respond. How else could you respond? Agree with her and you're a lying sack of shit. Disagree with her and she, along with her mischievous smirk and carefully perched cleavage, may walk out and leave you to pay the tab, drive home alone and wank to memories of the bottom curve of her shorts.
"I saw one once. In my yard." She arches one eyebrow. This is a test. Please be a test.
"Yeah?" Come on. Just look convincing enough. At least it's not the typical astrology bullshit. Be thankful it's not unicorns like Jenny. Or chakras and chi like Elise.
"I saw it eat my cat," she adds in a breathy, trying-too-hard-to-be-Jessica-Rabbit tone that's in complete contrast to Lucky Charms and dead cats and kooky chicks. She's kidding. She has to be kidding. Not every attractive woman that talks to you could be a psycho.
"I was lying in my bed, staring out the window," Whatever you do, don't picture it. Don't start trying to imagine her in a tight, white tank top and cotton panties. Because you won't be able to pretend like you're paying attention if you get the idea that she sleeps in a baby doll nightgown, in lingerie, in the nude. Fuuuck.
"-and I could hear Puss-Puss wailing, but I was so scared. I mean, you don't see a leprechaun every day." You've got to have a good story to come back with. Ghosts? Ouija boards? Bigfoot? You have to have learned something mocking Weekly World News for so many years.
"Yeah." Ok. You're back on it. Just think about cold showers and global warming and Abe Vigoda in a Speedo. Anything to keep you focused on the nut job across the table.
"You believe me, don't you?" Come on. Just say yes. What can it hurt? Just fucking say yes.
"No one ever believes me," For those eyes, you.d walk on coals. For that pout, you'd smack your grandmother. For the quarter inch of flesh peeking at her hip between her t-shirt and her pink studded belt, you'd vote Nader. So, just swallow your internal screaming skeptic and at least nod your head already.
"I've got a picture of it." She slides her hand across the table towards yours. You promised yourself no more psychos. But goddamnit, just look at her.
"It's back at my place."
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