We were eating them that night, the sex night, technically the night after the sex night, the night T told us all about her adventures on the post-BINGO karaoke dance floor. KK said, “Oh Jenny!” when I said his name was Obadiah, but actually it was. Obadiah Blacksmith Saxton or something like that. Said so right there on the photo T nagged off of Facebook.
We were eating tortilla chips with avocado and summer rolls. T made lettuce wraps and poked her finger into her cupped hand repeatedly as she regaled us with the details of their night of passion. A passerby outside M’s house could have looked into the window and thought any number of things. “Look honey,” she might have said to the man walking with her, “Those ladies are eating tortilla chips and making the international sign for doin’ it.” They could have found it funny, they may have been offended. One can never know for sure in these situations.
One thing we do know is Obadiah likes to sail and apparently has a rather large… well now let’s not be crass, we are ladies here. Ladies who write, ladies who laugh, ladies who share the intimate details of their lives over tortilla chips and rum and sparkling clementine flavored juice beverage. Weekly, bi-weekly, as often as possible with respect to the invisible line that represents too much.
We will forever chat on over email, on the phone, through the time space continuum with skype and whatever technological genius is coming next down the pike. There will always be food. There will always be love. There will always be the cackling laughter of best friend catty bitches.