Free Naughty or Nice by Eric Jerome Dickey

onto him.
    He knows.
    And I know he knows.
    He tells me, “You’re a beautiful young woman, Tommie.”
    â€œI’m a grown woman, Blue.”
    â€œI know you are.”
    This is our pink elephant.
    I don’t know if the elephant looms and breathes because of my therapy, my two years of abstinence, or my abuse and trust issues that he knows a little about, or our age difference.
    Or if it’s because we’re friends, and there are lines friends don’t cross.
    My palms become rivers while my throat turns into a desert. People think that therapy makes it easier to put things on the table, to say what you mean and mean what you say, but it only teaches you how to hide your own problems while you become better at fixing other people.
    It’s hard to put my arms around him because at the end of the hug is another good-bye. I know I’ll have to let go. I know I’ll have to move on. That we’ll have to go through this again and again. The only thing waiting for me across the street is thoughts of him and Monica.
    Again we’re face-to-face, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. I want him to. I don’t want him to. He lets me go and the room turns cold. I turn the door handle. But I don’t leave.
    I say his name. Emotions ride out of my body on my voice.
    I whisper, “Can I ask you a question?”
    He shifts. “Sure.”
    â€œWhat are we doing?”
    He struggles with my question. “What do you mean?”
    â€œBlue, don’t . . . you know what I mean.”
    â€œWe’re friends.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œTommie, you’re twenty-three. I’m thirty-eight. Renting a duplex. A single parent. A struggling screenwriter. A school-teacher at L.A. Unified, where sometimes I get my check on time, and sometimes I don’t. I work at Old Navy on the weekends to make ends meet.”
    I let him go until he’s done. All the things he tells me are the reasons I admire him.
    I say, “My daddy was a janitor, a plumber, did whatever he had to do.”
    â€œI’m not your daddy, Tommie.”
    â€œAnd I don’t expect you to be. I’m just asking . . . Whassup?”
    â€œMy life is complicated, Tommie.”
    We’re standing there looking at each other, the pink elephant moving back and forth, then sitting in a corner, giving us enough room to do this circle dance.
    â€œLife is complicated for everybody, Blue.”
    â€œAnd I’m damaged goods.”
    â€œWe’re all damaged, Blue.”
    Lights are coming down Fairfax, somebody driving too fast for this residential area. The car slows down and whips into Blue’s driveway. It’s a dirty, white Pontiac Grand Am.
    Erotic feelings dwindle as tension rises.
    I say, “She’s here.”
    Blue curses her. “Not even a phone call to say she’s going to be fourteen hours late.”
    â€œDon’t get upset.”
    â€œShe’s damn near forty and as irresponsible as a fucking—”
    I shush him and motion at his sleeping child. “Lower your voice.”
    His voice becomes a harsh whisper, “She gets me every time.”
    â€œDon’t give her that power. And Monica doesn’t need to see that either.”
    â€œThis is ridiculous.”
    â€œShhh. And don’t say anything negative about her in front of Monica.”
    The car parks and she gets out. We step out the door. She sees us up top and stops.
    Blue says, “Funny how you can have a child with someone and have zero connection. I look at her, feel nothing, other than that’s my child’s mother. Don’t even know her.”
    â€œHow did you . . . I mean . . . you and her . . .”
    â€œHow did we have a baby?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œShit happens.” That’s his answer to the unanswerable.
    I say, “I’m out, Blue. Holla if you need me.”
    I head down the stairs,